Cries of exclamation and surprise flutter through the dining room, and I pop my gaze back over my shoulder to see who is causing the commotion big enough to tilt the ship.
It’s Sven, and he’s already dressed like Christmas Thor, with red and green armor and a wig of flowing blond hair streaming over his shoulders.
“You, brother Loki, have tricked everyone again. This fair damsel is not your bride, but mine,” Sven shouts, shaking his hammer.
The boat shifts to the other side, and a voice over the loudspeaker announces, “This is the captain. Do not panic. We’ve hit rough waters, but we’re entirely safe. Rest assured, there are no icebergs in this part of the Pacific Ocean.”
“I am Thor!” Sven’s voice booms. “Hand back my bride or the sea will rise up at my command and toss icebergs as large as the mountains of Hel at us.”
Nervous laughter titters through the dining room as people recover sufficiently to take out their cameras and cell phones. Sven takes my hand, pulls me to my feet, and dumps me unceremoniously over his hard, metallic shoulder armor.
“Jordan.” I reach toward him, piteously, if at best, because instead of gallantly stepping forward to rescue me, he’s rolling with his chair tilted back, laughing and clutching his sides.
What kind of fake husband is he?
The disloyal reunion Pilots cheer and hoot, singing their high school fight song, as Sven removes me from the dining room.
No one comes to my rescue.
No one intervenes.
Everyone is laughing, and they think it’s scripted.
If it is, no one bothered telling me.
Great. I’ll be subjected to another extended bout of self-aggrandization, braggadocio, and the eardrum-pounding, booming voice, now amplified with Thor’s hammer. I can see a grand mal headache coming on.
Applause follows us as Sven lets me down, then, kissing my hand, he leads me to a private dining room with a table set for two.
