Plane Ride to Heaven

"No, in places like this you meet people that don't give a shit; they'll get hammered to forget their problems and, if things get violent, they'll throw a few punches, before returning to downing cheap drinks."

"I'd say you sound like a lunatic, but..." Jim rolled his eyes and poured himself another glass of draft beer. "God damn it, man, you make it sound so...rational and...I don't know. You make it sound like the only right thing to do."

"It is, man," Peter threw his arms up in the air. "You work at a bar, man! You, of all people, should understand the power of the drink; the sheer force it exudes, the changes it causes in people's heads and souls."

At around that point Peter decided it was time to stop philosophizing—he was getting into that sweet, shortlived zone of alcohol, where there's nothing but peace of mind and clarity of thoughts and emotions.

It was the time of day he could really feel, but, not strongly enough to express his opinions vocally, if it was deemed unnecessary risk (or, unnecessary bridge-nuking). And as he decided to prolong this magnificent time with his real thoughts—and not the carefully constructed ones that sustained him through everyday life—he ordered a double bourbon, neat, to chase the beer (and his conflicting thoughts) with.

Once again, the couple of hours turned into a last call order of "one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer". He staggered back to the apartment that ought to feel like home, but, never did.

This time around, Penelope was already in bed, sleeping in the embryonic position, facing away from the bedroom's door. He laid down next to her, glimpsed at her, and his heart skipped a beat before his brain shut down.

* * * *

Despite the painful numbness that arose in her body, she did not stir a muscle, when he landed heavily on the double bed, reeking of beer and well tequila—what caused her heart to sink down to her stomach was how accustomed she had grown to the scent that it hardly bothered her.

It had become his cologne and it was all right.

But, at the same time, it wasn't. She had had another pleasant chat with Morten during lunch—he talked about his suburban house in the Gentofte area, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the wider Copenhagen area, as well as the calm life people lead in those suburbs.

He talked about Lungby, another suburban neighborhood of northern Copenhagen, with its restaurants, mall, and small shops—and how he almost never went downtown, bar for work. It all reminded her of her own home neighborhood and how idyllic it was, despite the vast differences between the two countries—economically and culturally.

Listening to him talk so passionately, yet without showing passion, about his peaceful life was enough to light a different fire in her heart—the desire to experience the same peacefulness, without dealing with the alcohol-fused rush, the not knowing Peter's whereabouts.

Eventually, she, too, fell asleep despite Peter's snoring and burping, which filled the air with more particles of alcohol; her sleep, however, was not peaceful and rejuvenating, as cruel thoughts about the tomorrows that were to come crept into her dreams, turning them into brutal soul-crushing nightmares.

* * * *

Grey Sunday—nearly three months since that fateful SAS flight from Athens to Copenhagen that significantly altered both their lives—that they sat down on the small kitchen table—Penelope with a mug of steaming coffee, Peter with a glass of bourbon—finally to have a discussion both dreaded and had postponed to the best of their abilities:

Penelope (somberly): We really have to talk, don't we?

Peter (nods, rubs the bridge of his nose): I guess; I mean, it's been in the air for...a while.

Penelope: It's...crazy. Fucking crazy!

Peter (chuckles): It's the first time I hear you swear—you know that?

Penelope (chuckles, too, warmly): Apparently, I did learn something from you.

Peter: Would certainly seem so. So...

Penelope (with a heavy sigh): Yeah, I don't know how to begin, I...

Peter (solemnly, swirling the glass): I guess, I'll start...I'm leaving for Malmø. Soon—it's only a train ride away, anyway. Besides, I've been here for almost as long as I'm allowed without a visa of some sort.

Penelope: You could find a job, or something, if you really wanted to...stay, I mean...

Peter: Do you want me to stay?

Penelope (instantly): Yes. I mean...yes, of course; it's just...it'd be good if we didn't live together. (heavily sighs and her lips curl in a sorrowful smile) It was too soon, wasn't it?

Peter: I ain't gonna say 'I told you so', but...I kinda did.

Penelope: How did things go...so southward so quick?

Peter: We started on the wrong basis, that's all—we let passion and attraction take over. We thought we'd beat the odds.

Penelope: What odds?

Peter: Almost all relationships that are based on pure passion and lust are doomed to fail—often, brutally.

Penelope (timidly): You've been down this road before, haven't you?

Peter (nods with a groan): Yeah...few times. Comes with...always being on the move. That's all.

Penelope (accusingly): So, you knew!

Peter: I feared—but, I really did want to give it a shot. I truly hoped it'd work out.

Penelope: Nothing works on hope, Peter!

Peter: I know; but, let's not get...confrontational.

Penelope: Why? Aren't breakups supposed to be all about confronting one another? Blaming one another?

Peter: There's no one to blame for this, Penelope. (he draws a deep breath, accompanies it with a swig of bourbon) We are just not as compatible as we initially might have thought. That's all.

Penelope (guffaws, dryly): Not as compatible...well, duh! I mean, look at us, Peter. Look at...what we want. You want nothing but to drink and be on the move; drink a city dry, then off you go. Without giving a single damn about who you might leave behind heartbroken and devastated.

Peter (runs his fingers through his hair): So, I guess, your going out with that guy from work every second day has nothing to do with all of this, huh?

Penelope (defensively): What's that got to do with Morten? It's not as if I'm cheating on you, or anything—he's just a kind man that shows me around the city he knows so well and helps me adjust to my new life. Which, by the way, is far more than you ever did!

All you can show me of Copenhagen is the couple of watering holes you get hammered in every single night!

Peter: You do realize all he wants is to get in your pants, right?

Penelope: That's your problem—first, you think everything revolves around sex and, second, you have to make everything primal. 'Get in my pants'? Couldn't you find a more...

Peter: A more what? (he slams the drink down, uncorks the bottle and has a long swig out of it) A more sensitive phrase? Should I have phrased it...differently? In a more...considerate manner?

Penelope: For starters. That's your main problem, Peter—you never consider other people. In your everyday life, in the way you talk, in your writing. Every little thing you do is offensive to someone.

Peter (guffaws, dryly): Fuck that. Seriously; that's why I move around a lot, anyway. To avoid having to deal with fucking sensitive pussies getting offended at every little thing.

It's what I liked about Greece—people there seemed more thick-skinned than most. It's why I thought we'd have a future together. You were thick-skinned, when we first met.

But, you spend three months in this goddamn socialist shithole and you become one of them—overly sensitive, sickeningly politically correct...is that how that Morten guy is? Cautious never to say anything to offend someone sitting two tables away from you?

Is he also a firm believer of that Juntaloven whaleshit? Does he believe that people shouldn't strive to be the best? That no one is more talented, or, better than others?

Penelope (angrily): He does. And he's very humble, despite holding a very high position in the company. Despite his achievements, he doesn't brag, he doesn't look down on people.

Peter (coldly): Good for him.

Penelope: You really think the world revolves around you, don't you?

Peter (chuckles): What the fuck are you talking about? I know I'm a fucking nobody—which is why I drink, so that I can be somebody. I just can't stand people who refuse to accept they're fucking nobodies.

And, for better or for worse, there are many stupid motherfuckers in this world that firmly believe they're somebody, when, they're nobodies. That's all.

Penelope: You seemed so charming, back in that airplane...if I knew...

Peter: I was the same man I am now, Penelope—don't kid yourself. You just thought it was gonna be a rose garden—you forgot that roses have thorns. Roses are mean motherfuckers.

Penelope: What are you trying to prove? That it's my fault?

Peter: It's nobody's fucking fault, damn it! We just made a mistake, we thought it'd be different than it turned out to be. That's all. You're the one that decided to go on to the offensive and turn this into a fucking duel!

I was being motherfucking civil!

Penelope: Very civil, considering every second word that comes out of your mouth is an expletive.

Peter: That's how I talk; haven't you noticed?

Penelope: How could I? When was the last time we really had a talk?

Peter: You were always out with that Morten guy—don't blame that on me!

Penelope: I spent time with Morten, because you were always out in watering holes drinking yourself to oblivion!

Peter: I was out there drinking myself to oblivion—as you so elegantly put it—because that's the only way I can feel somewhat happy!

Penelope: Why did you have to drag me into your mess, then?

Peter: I dragged you into nothing! You asked me to live with you, remember? The first fucking day we met—and fucked! Remember how we used to do that, too? (abruptly stops and draws a deep breath, settling down) Holy shit, when did we turn into a bickering married couple?

Penelope (her lips break into a faint grin): I really don't know; everything went down so...quick, didn't it?

Peter: That's the problem; we had no cooldown period, no...we went from mad with passion to mad with anger. Nothing in between.

Penelope: Why?

Peter (shrugs): I don't know; maybe, it was the instant attraction? Those fireworks that went off the moment I laid my eyes on you?

Penelope (lowers her gaze and giggles): For a writer, you're horrible at this!

Peter: It's my boyish charm that makes my awful lines work.

Penelope (shakes her head, still grinning): I don't how you always manage to make me crack up, even when I should be furious at you.

Peter: It's because you don't want to stay mad at me, that's all. It's stupid, being angry at each other. I mean...it's been only three months, right? It's not as if we've spent a whole lifetime together.

Penelope: Maybe, it's that you're my second, and...

Peter: Don't go there.

Penelope (sighs): Fine. So...what now?

Peter (gets up, after polishing the bottle off): I better get packing—there's bound to be a train for Sweden today. Gonna spend the last of my savings on the ticket and...well, it's a new start, yet again.

Penelope: How can you do this, all the time? Being so casual about heading into the unknown!

Peter (shrugs): It's the benefits of knowing you're a nobody—you stop giving a shit.

Penelope: How about me? Have you...stopped giving...

Peter (rushes to her and plants a long kiss on her forehead): On the contrary; it's why I have to go. Because I still care about you—despite what we just said to each other.

I've never had trouble burning bridges to the ground, but...this is one bridge I hate having to burn.

Penelope (lifts her head and brushes her lips against his): Then, don't.

Peter (puts his hands around her cheeks, stares dead into her eyes): I have to. It's...angry words are like drunk words—they're brutally honest. It's how I strained my relationship with my father, how I napalmed pretty much every friendship I ever had.

It's so simple—you get drunk, or angry, or both, and you start saying the things you truly feel. Sure, you can blame it on the drink, or the rage, but...in the end, it's your true feelings, the ones you've repressed for a long while.

Penelope: You've never talked about your parents—you've only said it was a fine, calm life you lived.

Peter (chuckles): Yeah...that was a lie. The one lie I told you.

Penelope (pushes him back down on the chair): What's the truth?

Peter (rubs his closed eyelids; then, he cracks a second bottle of bourbon open): Well...my father's a redneck. A real, dumb redneck. However, he always refused to accept it—he thought he was better than everyone else, he thought he had to be better than everyone else—even though he was doing the exact same things he was cursing others for doing.

Anyway, because he wanted to live the high life, he mortgaged our family house more than once—just so we'd have money to spend on luxuries and shit we didn't need. Just so he could feel superior—just so he could convince himself, and those around us, we weren't backwoods rednecks.

Naturally, he couldn't afford the payments; he was simply a blue-collar worker busting his back for minimum wage. Bank took our house, when I was ten. We lived in cheap motels for a while, then, found a small, cockroach-infested apartment.

My mom left, when I was thirteen—can't blame her. Found a man, who wasn't a redneck and had money, not just pretended he did. So, I decided I'd take the same road.

I hang around in the town's bar, I was drinking—mingled with some methamphetamine-cooking crowds. Learned how to do it backwoods style—in plastic bottles using batteries. It's a wonder I didn't blow myself up—though, a fiery death would've been more than welcome.

At any rate, as soon as I got my driver's license and had enough money, I left for Nashville—seeking for fortune. But, some time before that, I returned to the filthy apartment we called home from the bar drunk like a skunk and my father confronted me about it—beginning to rant about how I embarrass him by being a drunk, how it's not appropriate and that I don't consider what other people will think.

Well, I was drunk and had amassed enough anger in me to blow an entire city to ashes. I erupted—essentially, I told him that he's nothing but a fucking redneck that believes he's somebody, but, everyone else know he's a real nobody.

That everyone in the town knew he fucked up big time, just so he could pretend like he was living the high life. After all, I was hearing things at the bar and he was the laughing stock of the town—even methheads thought he was fucking pathetic.

I told him all that; he started crying. I never apologized; we never talked about it again. I guess, he convinced himself it was nothing but a drunken outburst. One day, I just drove away—never looked back.

And...that's it. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Penelope (aghast): I...really don't know what to... (she fell in his arms, embracing him tightly) Why didn't you tell me earlier? I mean...

Peter: It wouldn't have changed anything. Besides, I'm not going around telling this to people, simply because I do not need, nor want, their pity.

Penelope: But...had I known, I...

Peter (dryly): Don't. I am my own man; my childhood, the sins of my father, do not define me. I am who I am, despite all that shit. I left home to escape the shit. Therefore, I refuse to bring it up, to talk about it.

Penelope: Why haven't you at least written about it? I mean...

Peter: I have. And I got nothing but rejection slips for my trouble. They want an inspiring ending out of it; they want my story to give hope to others experiencing similar situations. They don't like the fact I just ran away and found solace in drinking.

If I quit drinking, if I make amends with the past—in short, if I become a twelve-stepper and a teetotaler—then, they'll publish it, because it'll be inspiring. But...fuck them.

Penelope (kisses his neck): I can't let you leave, I just...can't...not after...

Peter: I have to go. It's...as I said, I don't need pity. I'm not a stray dog looking to be adopted and cared for—I'm the kind of stray dog that haunts the backalleys and bites whoever dares approach.

Penelope: You don't have to be like that; you can...

Peter: I don't want to; that's the point.

Penelope (gives up with a heavy sigh, remains seated on his lap): Fine, I...I guess, it's not my place to...

Peter (stares into her eyes, shakes his head): Nope; it's not.

They both remain perfectly silent and still—overwhelmed by the dread that comes from knowing it's the last time they'll ever see each other. The final time they hold each other, the final time their gazes shall meet. Penelope leans forth, rubs her nose against his, half-closing her eyes and half-opening her lips. He remains still, like a stoic stone statue, his hands barely touching her waist. And, for a moment, they remain thusly, their lips just half an inch away, but, the kiss had never before felt more distant.

Then, abruptly and driven by a deep passion that suddenly set her heart on fire, she presses her lips on his—at first, he retains his impassive stance, hardly flinching. A moment later, he gives in to his urges.

He pulls her tighter against him, as he slips his tongue in her mouth—she sucks on it hungrily, her fingers tangled in his hair.

It's nothing like their first time—nor the subsequent ones. It feels more animalistic, more passionate, and rawer than ever before—he slides his hands in her pants and firmly grabs her ass.

She lets out a heavy gasp, when he stands up, holding her by the ass, and pushes against the kitchen counter; immediately, she wraps her legs around his waist and, while still sucking on his lips, reaches down and pulls his prick out of his sweatpants.

Having already given up on his inhibitions, he helps her out of her blouse and bra, then proceeds in taking her breast in his mouth—he slowly swirls his tongue around her erect nipple, gently burying his teeth in her breast.

Her grip around his prick tightens, stroking slow and hard—the tighter her grip, the harder the bites on her breast. She rests her head on his shoulder, amidst her heavy panting, and bites his shoulder gently.

He squats, planting long, wet kisses on her stomach—immediately, she puts both hands on the top of his head and eagerly pushes him down, as she trembles lightly from the shivers traversing her spine.

She stretches her legs, as she leans back on the counter, resting her head on the tiles, and lets out a short gasp, when he jerks her pants down to her ankles—then, he buries his face between her legs, his hands massaging her inner thighs.