Today though, he didn't have the heart for it. Maybe it was the two double whiskies he had downed in O'Malley's Authentic Irish Pub (though he doubted the actual 'Authenticity' of any establishment within recently-constructed Heathrow Terminal 5). More likely, it was the knot of grief in his Business Class belly. When had he crossed the line from being a skinny ginger youth - like these high-spirited lads in front of him - to being a greying, portly expatriate executive? He supposed it hadn't been a 'line crossed' as such, but a gradual process of attrition (or whatever was the opposite of attrition, maybe 'accretion' or something like that? As an engineer, he thought he ought to know this kind of thing...)
What he did know was that he was keeping up this internal stream of wittering to keep from thinking that this was the first flight back to Kuala Lumpur he had taken without her.
He peered towards the front of the queue, wondering what the hold-up was. The cabin crew (who appeared to be three Balinese goddesses slumming it on earth) were fussing over a young Malaysian boy, barely ten years old he guessed, who was trussed up in a three piece suit and tie. Bashful at the attention he was receiving, the boy stared down at the floor through severe spectacles. Alan was close enough to see that the glasses were black-rimmed and the eyes behind them ever so slightly red rimmed.
Alan thought of his own two children, whom he had left behind at their expensive boarding school. At least they would have each other, he consoled himself.
The Malaysian boy finally entered the plane and turned left, he noticed. Next up were the gap year gang, who couldn't hide their ogling of the goddesses and were hastily pointed right, towards Economy class, whereupon they couldn't hide their dismay at being 'bested' by a 10 year old boy. For the first time in ages, Alan allowed himself half a smile and turned left himself.
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