It would not have been as uplifting to board a plane to America, if they did not provide a multitude of hot, boiling coffee, seemingly brewed only for those wishing to catch up on work; or perhaps even avoid sleep in a claustrophobic area with several other people snoring around them. The flight attendant set up the steaming complimentary cups on the silver trolley, dull underneath the low inset lights. I would not say she did not uphold the same fake pleasantries of the majority of her kind, but it was almost comforting to see her tuck a strand of caramel hair behind her ear, attempting to stifle a broad, impending yawn. She bustled around with a package of biscuits on the second shelf of the trolley, and placed a stack of napkins and straws atop it.
My head fell numbly to my hand, holding it up until I found myself suppressing my own yawn. I decided to indulge in a little rest of eye, keeping myself awake with thoughts of all the passengers reaching our destinations at once, exchanging sleepy smiles with strangers and stiff, polite stances as some struggle to pull their luggage down from their top compartments.
I was fortunate enough to attain a seat of passage next to a quiet girl of a, most likely, talkative nature. It amused me once she sat, as she almost instantaneously fell into slumber, her own head resting on a doughnut-shaped pillow, and long, blonde hair cascading down her back and about her face with loose curls. How exactly could she sit, nonetheless sleep, with a tight, button up blouse, and short, denim trousers? Not to mention the inconvenience of her footwear. As I recall when she first dropped into deep slumber, she wore thin, flimsy rubber sandals, dangling from her toes and boasting a loud, pink colour.
"Coffee?" the tired stewardess tapped me on the shoulder warily and then leaned backwards, a delicate finger resting on one of the lids of the cups for emphasis. I nodded lightly, reaching over to set down the airplane tray before accepting the now, slightly cool, drink. "Would you like a cookie with that?" she inquired, holding up a package of miniature chocolate chip biscuits. "Er…no, thank you." My voice, despite my awakened state, sounded raspy and sleep-ridden. "Are you sure?" her own voice began to return to its previously perky demeanour, as she lifted up three more packages. "We have peanut butter, sugar, and oatmeal as well, miss." She persisted. For a reason unknown to even myself, I smiled slightly at the corners of my lips, and took a crumbling oatmeal cookie with a napkin, her oval, manicured nails grazing the palm of my hand. "Thank you…."
She rolled away with the trolley, a relieved expression gracing her face. I wasn't quite sure what to do with the unwanted biscuit then, so I placed it on the napkin, forgotten, and took a tentative sip of the coffee. Immediately, the bitter, creamy liquid scalded my tongue. Not too atrocious, though. It tasted of cinnamon? Perhaps some dark chocolate as well. It wasn't too long until the cup grew empty, and was set complacently next to the untouched biscuit.
The girl in the neighbouring seat began to stir, her legs twisting almost grotesquely between the floor and her carry-on bag, or rather purse. It most likely contained a loud print or pattern on the inside…interesting how a quiet individual could seem quite so indefinitely loud…
My own eyes were fluttering softly, like tiny feathers brushing away the harsh airplane air on my pale cheeks. In foresight, I commend myself for staying up quite so long, as I recall, the last time I took a peek at my wristwatch, and it was half past twelve…Yet, sleep overtook me, as quickly as the obscure, black cloak of night captures death.
I awoke to the sound of what appeared to be a digital camera, but muffled in a cacophonous chord, not quite pleasing to my ears.
Gradually, my eyelids lifted just enough so that I could peer at close sight without anyone suspecting me of awakening at all. The inadequate comfort of my position didn't exactly occur to me until I only slightly shifted my arm to the left, rolling my shoulder into a state of relaxation, and wincing at the responding "pop". The stony gray tray in front of me, as though it were a malignant guard or gate of some sort, was pinning both of my arms to my shoulder in a painful, albeit awkward, position. To somewhat release the aching limbs from its embrace, sliding upwards in the seat seemed like the best possible option, and as I did, relief immediately rushed to my sore shoulders and neck.
The clicking camera noise apparently ceased as I did so, and I reflexively turned my head in its lack of direction. At the same time, I noticed the bitter, old taste of sweet coffee from a few hours before spoiling my tongue. For a second, I longed for one of those complimentary miniature toothbrushes and toothpastes.
"Oh, I see you've woken up."
The voice startled me, although the girl's direction had already received my stare. Now that she was awake, her hair was swept up off her face in a high ponytail, and a fresh coat of shiny lip-gloss had been applied to her lips. "What exactly did you think you were doing?" My voice came out a tad brusquer and accusative this time, and I regretted the impulsive speech as she slowly leaned to the side opposite me in her seat.
"What…what d'you mean?" She was tapping at her phone furiously now, a slow start of a smirk growing on her face.
"I'm sorry…that…that noise you were making, it was sort of irritating me."
"This?"
Suddenly an image of a white ghost above a yellow background and a list of names appeared quite close to my face on her phone screen. "I'm sorry, I thought you were still sleeping, so I was Snapchatting one of my friends…" she giggled nervously. "I, um…I didn't mean to bother you."
At this, I began to doubt my involvement in the modern age, and I looked at her as though she were communicating to me in a foreign language. "What is Snapchat, might I ask?"
The girl raised one, drawn-on eyebrow, and then began to tap furiously at her phone once she came to the realization of the seriousness of my ignorance to social media. "Yes, yes you may ask…"
With a grin, she tapped her temples with one, slim finger and read, "Snapchat is a photo messaging app developed by Robert Murphy and Evan Spiegel. Using this application, users can take photos/videos, add text and/or drawings, and then send them to a controlled list of recipients. The photographs and videos sent are called "Snaps". Users of Snapchat can set a time limit for the amount of time the recipient has to view the snap (between 1 and 10 seconds). After viewing, the photo or video is deleted from Snapchat's servers and the recipient's device."
I blinked. "That sounds…very, er…..crafty…"
She nodded vigorously and pointed to a spot on her screen I could not see. "Another controversy veiling Snapchat's rising popularity in the United States is sexting, a phenomenon involving the exchange of explicit pornographic images, usually amongst teenagers. Often, those pictures shared on Snapchat escape the comfort of its deletion from the user's device due to the option of screenshotting, which is where people take a picture of the Snapchat on the screen. Although Snapchat enables the picture's view for only literally, a few seconds, it does not prevent screenshotting."
"And this is supposed to be enjoyable, you say?" The pitch of my voice cracked a bit as I attempted to contain all of the information she just engulfed my mind with.
"Well, not that many people actually use Snapchat for sexting anymore, it's mostly just for taking funny pictures and sending them to friends so they can't use it later for blackmail or anything, right?" Her words tumbled out in quite a rush, so much so that I wondered how one of her American origin (although I am simply assuming such by her accent) could withstand the rate of words per second.
"Um, right." I said quite unconvincingly. There remained a short silence afterward, in which I stared awkwardly at my palms, scolding myself for engaging in such an unprofessional conversation and yet seeming quite innocent compared to my partner in conversation, despite my age of twenty-two. Although, I wasn't exactly sure of her age. She seemed to be fairly younger than me, but if we were to have the same number of years, I'm positive her winsome assertiveness painted a younger portrait of herself to strangers.
"Are you going to eat that?"
Once again, her voice permeated my thoughts, although I did not mind the interruption, considering the borderline discomfort of the silence between us. "Pardon?" I replied offhandedly. She pointed to the lone oatmeal cookie on my tray.
"I'm afraid if you don't take it, it will end up in the trash." With a rush of relief, I passed her the small package containing the cookie.
"Thanks, I'm absolutely starving." She groaned, ripping open the package and devouring the cookie in a matter of seconds, and only two bites. "I'm sorry, I just haven't eaten in a while, I slept through lunch and dinner." Her apologies didn't seem any less sincere through the crumbs muffling her speech, although it did almost incite a laugh within me.
"It's…quite alright. I didn't exactly catch your name either?" I stated in an unsure tone of voice, attempting to prevent any nature of eagerness in our conversation.
"Ezra Fanshawe, I'm sure you won't have to catch it, if I just hand it to you." She grinned, in a way that seemed to fully exude, "My jokes are terrible, but I laugh at them anyway."
"Ezra?" Curiously, the question already flew to the tip of my tongue and from my lips before I could stop it.
"Short for Ginevra, positively the most insufferably old-lady-ish name in the history of the planet, barely surpassing Gertrude." She spat. "So, yes, Ezra, nothing more, nothing less! And you are?"
I have never met someone so inquisitive and harsh, while still ensuring the charm and femininity of one lacking the former. Therefore, I felt compelled to answer her and produce conversation out of thin air, as I do with many others of her kind. Although, this Ezra did entertain me in a way unknown to even myself in the ways that she unintentionally parodied most of her kind. "Lucy Snowe." I answered simply, my hands mechanically finding the paper coffee cup on my airplane tray, and crumpling it at my side before clicking said tray back into place.
"Lucy Snowe? Not to be rude or anything, but that name is just so…I don't know, man. It just sounds like something out of a Charlotte Bronte love story of something, no offense. But, who could really be offended by Charlotte Bronte? I swear out of all those prancy British Victorian writers she's the most bada-" Ezra caught herself, and flushed, her proclamation ending in a knowing, clever laugh.
"You read Charlotte Bronte?" My words formed the question almost accusingly, daring a girl with looks as she to admit to reading such classics as the lady beyond her time.
"If the shoe fits, wear it."
I, Lucy Snowe, somehow have a burgeoning affection for this Ezra Fanshawe.
Author's Note- This is a fanfiction for a work of Charlotte Bronte's, Villette, which, as most books of its kind, is not placed as a category on this site. So, I put it under misc. since that seemed like the best option for now. Yes, this is quite different from my HP fanfiction of the past, but trust that I have not lost loyalty to my OTF, this fanfiction, is in fact, a project for school. How exciting is it that you can have my first hand sarcasm and witty author's notes again! (Not very.) As usual, thank you for reading. :)