Page 6 of Tilly in Technicolor
I’m tempted to tell her that I’m thoroughly concerned I won’t make it off this flight without being permanently maimed by her, but I have a feeling that isn’t the politest way to phrase it, so I grunt in response.
There’s another pause, and I feel her stare on me again.
“You’re suresureyou’re okay?” she whispers. “Because I can track down some ice.”
“Please stop asking,” I grind out, glancing up at her.
The girl flinches like I smacked her. She blinks at me, and, oddly enough, my gaze gets caught on her eyes. I wouldn’t call this eye contact though. No. It’s more of an… analysis. Her irises are a fascinating shade of gray, the color charged like the underbelly of storm clouds illuminated by a streak of lightning. Pantone 536, I think.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
My eyes finally unhook from the intensity of hers and land safely on her cheek.
“Oliver,” I say. There’s a pause.
“Oliver.” She repeats it like she’s trying out how it feels on her lips. “Well, Oliver, I’m Tilly. And I thinkmaybewe didn’t have the greatest start to this trip.”
I don’t say anything in response because, yes, that’s rather obvious. I notice splotches of pink rise on her cheeks as the silence stretches on. I’m probably supposed to be filling it withsmall talk. I’d, quite literally, rather dump a boiling pot of tea on my head than expend the energy small talk takes.
“Anyway,” she says, her hands fluttering up and hovering in the air. “I guess we both need to… er…keep a stiff upper lip on this one there, right-o?” she says in a horrible attempt at what, I think, is supposed to be a British accent.
“Sorry, what?”
Tilly’s hands land on her throat like she’s trying to stop the babble of words coming out, but the accent continues.
“Right. Cheerio. Just taking the piss,” she continues, slipping into something that’s close to… Cockney? What the devil is she on about?
“What the devil are you on about?” I blurt out. I don’t understand this conversation. At all. “I don’t think any of those phrases mean what you think they mean.”
Tilly’s face falls. “Oh, bugger,” she says, dropping her head back against her seat and crossing her arms over her chest.
“That one actually worked,” I say after a moment.
Tilly blinks, then turns to me, a smile breaking across her face. I can’t seem to hold my own back. It’s at this moment that I realize this odd stranger is actually rather… fit.
She’s a study in muted colors. Dusky pink lips. Olive undertones to her skin. Strong slashes of dark eyebrows. Upturned nose with a rosy tip. All of it complemented by inky black hair piled into two messy buns at the top of her head.
But what I find most fascinating is a cluster of three birthmarks at the top of her left cheek. I can tell each one has a slightly different pigment, and I want to lean in and identify them.
But I also know, to a stranger, that would be weird and massively inappropriate for me to do, so I check the urge and pull my headphones over my ears, turning back to the window.
I stare at the sky, enjoying the quiet. Absorbing the blue. Searching its nuances.
Less than a minute later, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn, Tilly looking at me with those wide, owlish eyes. I pull off my headphones.
“Alright?” I ask.
“Your headphones seem nice,” she says.
This is… true?
“They are, thanks,” I say. “Noise canceling,” I add before slipping them back on and turning to the window.
I’m barely back into my lull before I get another tap on the shoulder.
“Yes?” I say, just lifting one ear this time.
“Umm, if you need to use the bathroom or anything, just let me know,” Tilly says, waving toward the aisle. “And I’ll… uh… move.”
