He wore a white, nylon, safari suit – clothes from Prehistoria – and white patent leather shoes with gold trim, white nylon socks. Because of henna, not genetic mutation, his hair was orange.
He seemed a pleasant enough travelling companion and we chatted happily through the service. After the meal, he loosened his gold belt buckle, sighed and leaned back to stare contentedly into the middle distance.
The attendant returned with my second cup of coffee. She tripped on a piece of shoddy carpeting and the tray flew out of her hands, directly towards me.
Then a miracle happened. The plane hit a bad air pocket and lurched. In that moment of zero gravity, the scalding-hot coffee turned into a ball, flew past me and landed directly on my companion’s white, nylon crotch.
Nylon is porous.
He gripped the seat and clenched his teeth – stoic as a Spartan – as the coffee seared through his most treasured possessions.
Funny was when I saw him walk out of the terminal, covering the front of his trousers with his briefcase, in a final stab at vanity.