Sven had to accept that he wasn’t getting anymore sleep on the flight. He expected there was only had another hour or so before they touched down in Stockholm, so it wasn’t like his whole night was ruined, but he’d been away in America on business for two straight weeks, and his wife was sure to let him have it about how much she’d had to deal with being left alone with their four daughters.
He would’ve preferred having the extra amount of rest before the inevitable fight, but that jackass across the aisle from him in 1B kept hollering if the stewardess made him wait for another drink.
It was amazing. Sven didn’t think the man had slept at all on the flight, even though he seemed to struggle as he drunkenly found his seat when they were first boarding. Sven judged he must’ve had at least another three whisky sours since they’d been in the air, and yet the man in the cowboy hat looked even more alert than when he’d first stumbled onto the plane.
The jerk swiveled the ice around as he spied to see if there was any whisky left. When he determined there wasn’t any, he began to fish out his wallet while he jabbed the service button again and again.
Oh my. He’s going to order another one.
The stewardess, who seemed to have aged a decade since the flight first started, stormed over, grabbed his wrist firmly, and settled it down along the side of his lap.
“Where are we?” he asked. The man seemed to have reached a state of drunkenness in which everything sounded muted to him, because he practically shouted his question at her.
“We’re over Ireland,” she seethed. “Perhaps it’d be best if you took this opportunity to get some—”
“Ireland!” he exclaimed, then winced playfully and giggled as he put his finger to his lips, mocking the stewardess as she did the same. “I love Ireland,” he whispered, practically mouthing the words.
His eyes caught sight of Sven watching him. “Bring a pint of Guinness for me and my friend here. I’m buying.”
“We don’t have pints,” the stewardess replied.
“Well, bring what you have then.”
“It’s a little early for me,” Sven said.
“I’ll have his then.”
“I’ll bring you one,” the stewardess reluctantly conceded before storming off.
The man in the cowboy hat snorted and gave a shrug, content that he was getting served another round. He didn’t seem to notice Sven staring at him.
Sven didn’t mean to gawk, but he couldn’t help study the man. Ignoring the man’s impeccable ability to remain conscious after an overnight, overseas flight filled with heavy drinking, it intrigued him what could possibly be waiting for him when they landed that he needed to drink as much as he was to face it.
The man’s cowboy hat had been pulled down low, obscuring his eyes, but Sven didn’t doubt that they might look a little withdrawn and misty. Sven doubted that it would’ve all been attributed to the drink.
For the first time during the flight, he pitied the man.
Suddenly, facing an angry wife didn’t seem so bad.