Dove
I was pacing.
I knew I was pacing because the aisle of the jet was too narrow to properly pace in, and every time I turned I almost knocked my knee on one of the armrests, but I couldn't help it. I had too much energy buzzing under my skin to sit still.
The jet B&B had sent to collect us from New York to take us to Rio de Janeiro was ridiculous. It wasn't a plane, it was an apartment that happened to fly. The walls were all cream, soft and matte, with big oval windows that let in so much winter light it hurt my eyes. The seats were thick, buttery leather, the color of fresh cream, so wide you could curl up in them, with dark wood tables between them that shone like polished walnut.
