They board the train at 5:15 in the afternoon. Sliding the shorter ends of their orange tickets into the machine, they collect it from out the top before passing through the opened barrier.
It is a particularly fast train from Southampton to Gatwick Airport. Cay isn't used to being delivered quickly via long-distance transports. Although he doesn’t like the prospect of paying an extra £30 for a flight from the chosen airport, he feels thankful that he resisted taking a 5-hour ride on a National Express bus to Stansted. Judas, however, doesn’t mind either option.
The airline is a Spanish brand, which Cay complains to Judas about when booking the flight online two weeks ago, frustrated by the lack of English translation. The seats fit, but to Cay's surprise, there isn't a single USB port on either of his hand rests, nor is there one on the headrest in front of him. And there isn't a screen. Cursing silently, he reaches for his Jeffrey Eugenides novel and continues where he left off — one quarter through.
Their flight hasn't backed away from where it is stationed.
“You reckon that they’ll be departing soon?” Judas asks.
“Yeah, but take-offs always feel eternal.”
“I guess so,” he responds, chuckling.
Cay goes back to his book as Judas pulls out the standard magazine from the compartment just above his knee. His movement is brief and fluid, as if there is no friction between the glazed surface of the reading material and the elastic synthetic web-basket that holds it. Cay watches with awe throughout the entire process, but not long enough for anyone to notice.
Laying his head on the right side of the pseudo-headrest, he pulls the book closer, attempting to look like he isn't distracted by that stunt. Judas puts down his magazine and stares out the window as the aeroplane finally backs away from the terminal, the pages resting on the large title “To Rome, We Visit.”
Cay doesn't flinch or take any notice as the aeroplane ascends from the strip and continues onward to the scheduled destination. He isn't a frequent passenger of any sort of airborne transportation and does not take pleasure from the exhilaration of the shifting G-force.
All the while, Judas holds onto the hand rest, the prominent veins on his hands pulsating vaguely, but still noticeable. He stares straight ahead with slightly widened eyes as the pressure builds from above.
The two order a cup of water and a small bottle of Rioja Vega Crianza — the latter for Judas after the plane reaches optimum altitude. They flip through the menu and discuss whether to pay for a meal or two, because Cay forgets to finish the hummus wrap in his fridge.
While eating an onion-chutney and cheddar cheese sandwich, Cay asks if Judas is content with only consuming wine.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he nods, taking another gulp from the half-finished glass.
They go about their business shortly after the cabin lights come back on and the seatbelt signs switch off, and when Judas is less tense. The plane cuts across the night sky toward the stars, leaving England behind.
"Yes, I would love to be your girlfriend!" said Jenna.
As a slightly younger Cay, filled with exhilaration and astonishment, took a few steps backward, unable to process what the woman that he liked for months had just said. Jenna’s eyes were burning with compassion and determination, which rebuked him even more.
“Did you really just say that?”
“Yes, I’m your girlfriend now.”
“…Oh, wow….” He grinned, and hugged Jenna.
It was not always that Cay had moments like that, or anyone at all! To Cay, it felt like a once-in-a-lifetime accomplishment, even though he had lovers before the woman sitting in front of him.
After the embrace, they kissed — passionately — like any two who had just gotten together after a few months (or possibly years) of struggle, guessing who liked whom, analysing dubious signs when passing each other by, and asking certain questions after waking up in the same bed the next morning. Jenna led Cay back into his room, leaving the ceiling light in the middle of the shared kitchen on.
Cay had always wondered about Jenna, particularly her name. Jenna Quentin Tong was born in one of the rooms of the Royal United Hospital in Bath and raised in Frome, a small town just south of the city. Her loving parents, who immigrated from Taiwan back in the 1980s, had mostly stayed in England ever since — growing their Chinese takeaway within the little and insignificant town.
Her first name was even more interesting to Cay than her middle, which meant “Fifth” in Latin. The only answer Jenna gave him after their first courting was: “Why would I want to be named Jenny? It sounds too common, I hate it. It’s even worse when parents add ‘-fer’ after Jenni.”
They went about their business in his room, along the hallway where four other students lived, their doors identical and spaced between each other almost perfectly. Second term was almost ending, and Cay was slightly struggling with referencing. He had never cared about it until he was given his first assignment on the university’s campus.
But right now, it mattered not, as Cay slipped into a state of half-conscious ecstasy while Jenna was on top of him, half-naked, with her hips moving slowly — back and fro — enjoying every movement she made.
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