Stick Shift. Mary Leo

quickly and after Lucy got her prized boarding pass, she had to sprint to the gate, nearly knocking down a few people along the way, until she caught up to a guy who stood in front of her on the moving walkway. He wouldn’t step to the right so she could get around him. An annoying guy, with a Giorgio Armani black suede jacket slung over his shoulder, carrying a totally “now” Louis Vuitton brown bag, wearing obviously Italian sandals. The man was an ad for high fashion, who remained ahead of her right before the X-ray line.

      He took forever to put his things up on the conveyor belt, as if each item were something sacred, something precious.

      Lucy thought about going to the other line, but it was even longer. She wondered why she had hesitated. Why she had stayed to watch when she was in such a hurry. She drew in a deep breath while leaning slightly forward and immediately knew the answer. It was his scent of garlic, not the kind that repelled, but the fresh kind. The aroma that permeates the air when you cut into a really sweet clove.

      He went to the tray and removed a small ladle from his shirt pocket, a few dollar bills from another, a garlic press and a head of garlic from his jacket. The security guard immediately confiscated the garlic press.

      Lucy stood right next to him while he emptied his pants pockets of change, car keys, a silver money-clip, a clump of fresh basil and a handful of pistachios.

      After he finally walked through without a beep or a buzz, and the guards were satisfied that a garlic press couldn’t be used as a weapon, he stuffed everything back into his pockets, one item at a time. She never got a good look at him because he never quite turned around, but it didn’t matter. It was the familiar scent that had lured her—garlic, the scent of romantic dinners and passionate love.

      Seth, her fiancé and soon-to-be husband, was allergic to garlic. It gave him diarrhea and cramps.

      Frustrated with the whole spice adventure, Lucy flew past Garlic Man without so much as a question from the guards or a beep from the metal detector; she had been very careful packing.

      Suddenly, there was less than ten minutes to catch her flight. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Garlic’s scent, and the fact that he looked oh-so-sweet from behind, she would have pushed him aside and yelled out her annoyance. Garlic mixed with a little basil were foods she had learned to live without. Like onions, all they did was give you bad breath and indigestion. But for a moment, a twinkle in time, she had enjoyed the ambiance.

      She ran the rest of the way. Fortunately, the boarding gate wasn’t very far. Her momentary foolishness about a common herb had almost cost her the flight. She and someone running up behind her were the last two people to board the plane.

      Lucy found her row and sat next to the window. Just as she secured her seatbelt and let out an I-made-it sigh, the Italian Garlic Show walked up, boarding pass in hand.

      Before she had time to react to the amazing coincidence he said, “Scusi, signorina, but you are in my seat.”

      She turned. “I don’t think so,” Lucy said, annoyed. “I always sit next to the window.”

      “Yes. It helps from getting nauseous,” he said, standing in the aisle, looking down on her.

      “No. I don’t get sick. I just like the view.”

      “And what a beautiful view it is,” he said, obviously flirting.

      She blushed and pulled out her ticket. Sure enough, she was in the wrong seat. “I’m sorry. I just assumed—”

      “An easy mistake,” he said and just stood there. Waiting.

      She waited, thinking he would be the gentleman and tell her to stay where she was.

      He didn’t.

      “Please take your seats,” a male flight attendant said.

      Mr. Garlic smiled.

      Lucy smiled, but no one moved.

      “Is there a problem?” the attendant asked.

      “No. No problem,” Lucy said.

      “We’ll be taking off shortly. Please be seated,” the attendant repeated.

      “Certainly,” Mr. Garlic said, smiling. But he didn’t budge.

      Finally, Lucy gave in with a huff. She gathered her belongings and moved out of the row.

      “Grazie,” he said and climbed into his victory, sliding his bag under the seat in front of him and draping his jacket around his shoulders, then carefully fastening his seatbelt.

      When he finally settled down, he turned and threw Lucy a contented smile, as if he wanted to start up a conversation on the virtues of correct seating or something.

      She was so not in the mood for his smiling chatter.

      Instead, she decided to ignore him for the rest of the trip. If she wanted to look out of the window she would gaze out of the opposite one. However, there were three rather large people sitting across the aisle from her, entirely blocking any hopes of seeing anything.

      Fine, she thought. I’ll just work and sleep. I have a lot to do to prepare for my meeting. I don’t need a view.

      But a curious thing happened once she strapped herself in and the plane shook with its thrust down the runway. Despite her circumstances and the weirdo sitting next to her, instead of apprehension and her usual flight-fright, Lucy felt excitement.

      Joy, even.

      What was that about? She blamed her lack of appropriate apprehensions on the sleeping pill she’d taken the night before and settled in with the latest copy of Complete Woman, turning to the article entitled, “Rule Your World: 10 Ways to Get Control When Life Feels Wacko.”

      2

      “THIS FOOD should not be fed to a dog!” the deep voice beside her growled.

      It had been a miserable, turbulent flight so far and now Garlic Guy wanted to complain about his breakfast. Lucy wished he would just shut up.

      Actually, she thought her tiny omelette du jour, filled with some kind of unrecognizable cheese-like substance, was rather tasty.

      She didn’t want to even look at him, even give him the slightest indication she recognized his presence, but he poked her in the arm to get her attention.

      “How you eat that? It’s not food. It’s plastic. That’s what it is, plastic food.”

      Despite herself, Lucy had to answer. “I think it’s wonderful! Best eggs I’ve ever eaten.”

      He made a dismissive gesture, and called for an attendant.

      Lucy continued to enjoy her breakfast, making little yummy sounds as she chewed. She had to admit there were parts of the omelette that tasted like dishwater, but she would never say it out loud.

      “Take this away. I should eat my shoe rather than smell what you call an omelette,” Garlic Guy said to the male flight attendant who stood in the aisle. “Look,” he continued as he pulled off his black leather sandal. Everybody around him turned to watch, even Lucy. “This shoe, my shoe, tastes better.” He took a bite.

      Ironically, part of his sandal came off in his mouth. Lucy sat there, gawking. The flight attendant, a tall Harry Potter look-alike, stood spellbound, until some kid said, “Gross!”

      Lucy couldn’t believe her eyes. Mr. Garlic was actually chewing his own shoe.

      Disgusting.

      Fine, she thought, I’m destined to be tormented by this shoe-eating, garlic-toting idiot. I must have done something bad in a past life, or the current one, and he’s my punishment.

      VITTORIO had to admit he amazed himself when a piece of leather came off in his mouth. He never actually meant to eat his own shoe, but there it was, sliding around, mixing with saliva, breaking into pieces. The taste was rather interesting, certainly better than the omelette. Would he actually swallow?