The Show Must Go On

Chapter Four: That Don't Impress Me Much

Chapter Four Soundtrack: That Don't Impress Me Much by Shania Twain

I sneak another look over at him. The chair is so deep, and the armrests are so thick, that I have to lean so far forward that my neck is poking out like an ostrich, and now I am imagining myself as an ostrich, all flapping feathers and bulging eyes, and shit I've definitely been looking for too long.

Okay. Lean forward. Lean back. Coast clear.

I glance back, trying very hard to look elegant and classy, and not like someone obsessively scanning their colleague for proof that he's a bad person who deserves the texts he accidentally read. 

Nas is leaning back in his seat, apparently engrossed again in his book. Only the pulsing vein in his neck gives his agitation away.

I sneak a look at the cover. The Copenhagen Trilogy. Not a testosterone-fuelled self-help guide then. I feel even guiltier for assuming. Of course Nas reads. He may be unbearably arrogant but he's always articulate.

I can't think of a way to phrase that apology without making it worse.

The plane shudders into the sky, and around us, soft conversations hum. I stretch my legs, pull them back, stretch again. He glances down, but looks away when I relax my hands. I'm a bad traveller, but I don't want to make that his problem right now.

I breathe slowly, like I've practised, and the panic fades. It's still pulsing at the edge of my thoughts, but I can handle it.

Finally, we level out, and I watch the patchwork fields fade beneath us. Our wings pierce through marshmallow clouds.

Behind us, a baby cries.

Maybe this flight won't be so bad. We're both adults, after all. Maybe we can just ignore each other in civil silence.

After the seatbelt sign turns off, the flight attendant approaches us. She kneels down to murmur to Nas. 'Excuse me—I'm sorry to bother you—but are you Nasir Naji?'

'I'm sorry to say I am,' he replies.

She flushes bright pink. 'I can't believe it. I used to love your films.'

'Thank you,' he replies graciously. She touches his shoulder. The vein pulses.

'Could we take a picture?'

'Sure.'

He leans in, obviously expecting a selfie, but instead, she reaches across him and hands me her phone.

'Is that okay?' he asks me.

'Of course.'

She goes to lean her head against his but something in his eyes warns her off; she settles for a beaming smile. They look beautiful on her phone screen. I don't know what my face is doing.

'Smile,' I tell Nas. I take the picture.

'Thank you so much,' she gushes to him.

'You're welcome.'

She lingers for another moment. I can smell her fruity perfume and see the gold glitter of her eyeshadow. She's beautiful and she's expecting him to say something else. When he doesn't, she leaves with one final smile.

He opens his book again. I return to staring out the window.

Finally, I hope, I can stop worrying about Nas. But somehow he is still prowling around in my thoughts. I wonder how it felt, that she 'used to love' his movies. He doesn't act anymore, I think. Surely I'd notice if he vanished for weeks to star in something. Or, more likely, I'd spot a gushing editorial about his sultry eyes and confident movements (not that I've Googled him before, of course). Maybe producing is his passion now, but that doesn't quite make sense, either. He doesn't seem to love it. I don't always like it, but I love it. Not Nas, though. Nas tolerates it.