"Tomato juice?"
Mulder's words hum incredulously along with the plane, and I choke slightly on my first sip. I turn to him, meeting his amused half-smile with a blank stare.
"Have you even tried it, Mulder?"
Closing his mouth, Mulder picks up his can of sensible Diet Coke and answers me between sips.
"No," He says nonchalantly, somewhat reluctant, "But I can only imagine."
I roll my eyes at this, only because I know he isn't watching. Picking the offending beverage from my tray table, I bring it to my lips for another sip, letting the taste linger in my mouth for a moment. I suddenly realize that I'm testing it.
"What?" Mulder's voice pushes away the thoughts of vegetable-fruits. I turn. He's watching me intently.
I ease out of the concentrated expression that I'm wearing and thrust the clear, plastic cup toward Mulder's face. The tubular ice cubes collide dully into each other. His eyes linger at the thick, red liquid for a moment, then fall back to me.
"Just try it." I tell him frankly. He looks back at the juice for a second time, staring it down, apparently. Slowly, he complies. My ears pop as the plane ascends higher into the late night sky, and a dull alert rings as dozens of seatbelt lights leaps to yellow life. I watch with expectancy as Mulder lifts the cup to his mouth, his lips finding the crystal plastic exactly where mine had rested seconds ago.
Having taken a cautious sip, he brings the cup away from his mouth, which forms into an uncertain grimace. His squints painfully, as if his answer lies somewhere near the cockpit.
"Well?"
He turns to me, opening his mouth just as the plane leaps sporadically, causing the cup in his grasp to empty its contents down the collar of his shirt. Mulder lets out an excruciating cry as the thick liquid dribbles down his shirt and out of sight.
I give a snort of laughter, then hold my hand up as a sign of peace when he meets my eyes in annoyance. My other hand is clamped tightly over my straining mouth. The plane bucks up again, then dips down quickly, and Mulder sets the empty cup down on my tray table decisively. The dim overhead lights of our neighbors rise with their guests, and the captain's low voice offers an explanation over the intercom.
"We're experiencing some minor turbulence, so I ask you all to make sure that your seatbelts are securely fastened. We're passing through a storm just south of Mexico, which we should be exiting shortly."
Mulder pulls the saturated fabric away from his skin, and stuffs his small, square napkin down his shirt in a weak attempt to dry himself off.
"I DON'T like tomato juice."
"Here." I smile behind my napkin. Mulder accepts it and pulls his shirt over his head before scraping it feebly along his chest, most likely very thankful that no one is occupying the seat next to him this flight. When he finds himself relatively tomato-free, and after a few stewardesses have given him more than quizzical glances, he pulls a gray sweater over his head and settles into the dry fabric with relief.
"I miss my tomato juice." I say after a while.
"I have to say, it had spunk."
I smile broadly and watch Mexico pass dreamily below us, my forehead resting sleepily against the cool glass of a window miles from earth.