Tzipi quickly snapped her own selfie, tongue twisted and folded into a three-leaf clover shape, and sent it back. The weirdly rare genetic quirk was her go-to trump card in funny face wars. And something even her very talented sister could not do.
Pro-tip: order a 35K Altitude the minute you board. Your freaky tongue’s taste buds will thank you.
Tzipi didn’t have a chance to Google it, as boarding had begun and of course, first class boarded first. Even before the passengers with small, shrieking children. As much as she hadn’t wanted her sister to bump her up, she had to admit it was a nice perk.
She followed Kara’s advice once she was settled into her lux leather seat, and was presented with a crystal glass served on a small silver tray – very old Hollywood. The ice sphere that sat inside it was about as imposing as the Death Star, taking up most of the glass. The drink’s floral scent subtly won the war over the whiff of bourbon and egg white, and the gold flakes dusting the top gave it a celestial, almost weightless quality, as they took to the skies.
“Hibiki whisky and lavender honey.” The flight attendant who’d served it whispered, leaning in like it was a trade secret. And maybe it was; maybe all of this was the well-kept key to landing refreshed, flying first class. With top shelf drinks to sip and herbal-infused heated towels to dab and gourmet dinners to…
Apparently throw away, barely touched.
Tzipi watched, to her dismay, as the flight crew whisked away filet mignon with barely a bite taken. A chilled platter of shellfish, hardly touched. In went a miniature wheel of Brie, unwrapped and unceremoniously dumped into a white plastic garbage bag as the workers breezed down the short aisle after meal service.
At least the airline used real plates, but so many essentials – from the butter pats to the condiments – were still individually wrapped in single-use plastics. Her fingers twitched against the armrest in frustration.
It was hard to completely enjoy first class while observing it through a food waste lens, which was the entire basis of Tzipi’s non-profit start-up in L.A..
That’s a Wrap, Folks! had solved that problem on film sets across the city. Battling producers with their oversized budgets, catering companies with their over-the-top meals; calling them out on their casual disregard for what happened to all the leftovers at the end of a shoot. Questioning their canned responses of “it’s a liability” and “we’re just following policy.”
It had taken years, but Tzipi was proud of the relationships she had built with shelters and food banks. Of educating the industry, and proving the food was safe, edible and desperately needed elsewhere in their community.
Now, in Hollywood, when the cast wrapped their day, Tzipi’s staff wrapped the leftovers. Instead of being trashed, meals were packed up to feed real people.
She sighed, squirming in her over-cushioned seat. Shifting away from the businessman next to her, who had taken one bite of his towering chocolate soufflé before pushing it away.
Her side-eye hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“What, are you on a diet?”
What a rude thing to say to someone. No, asshole. I’m on a mission.
Tzipi pulled the hood of her oversized sweatshirt up over her head and closed her eyes. You’re also on vacation, she reminded herself, leaning back. Starting now.
A crash emanated up the aisle, and she cracked an eyelid open in the direction of the front of the cabin. Used trays were being discreetly stacked next to the rack of extra meals brought on board just in case. “Would it have killed them to load a compost bin?” she grumbled.
“What’s your pre-occupation with food?”
The businessman had had a change of heart, now shoveling chocolate into his face and addressing her with his mouth full.
“Not a pre-occupation. It’s my actual occupation.”
She had tackled Hollywood. Was it time to personally lobby the entire airline industry next? Moses help her, she just might.
Vacation, her brain ordered. Now.
She must’ve drifted off. A colony of plump shrimp floated by her window, peeled and steamed pink. Tzipi peered through the glass, like a kid watching underwater antics through a porthole at the aquarium. Except they were in the air, billowy clouds acting as the perfect plating garnish. Next, a dozen chicken wings flapped by, followed by a wake of carrot and celery sticks.
And then, there was Lorne. As handsome as Clark Kent, winking at her behind his thick framed glasses. Flying alongside her window, except he didn’t have Superman’s cape. Or abilities. Don’t worry about me, his grin seemed to relay. He thrust a muscular arm straight ahead, fist tight. Green screen! he mouthed, before spiraling like a missile toward earth.
“You can’t save him.” Kara’s familiar voice trembled with emotion. “We can’t save them all.”
Tzipi started, bolting upright and wide awake.
He’d been showing up in her dreams more as his birthday — well, what would’ve been his birthday — approached. At least she’d be with Kara for the rest of Hanukkah. Enough distraction to get through it.
The attendants were making one last round with their open snack baskets and smiles, and the guy next to her was engrossed in a movie on his tablet. Tzipi watched as her sister’s seductive assassin persona, Vanta Blackmore, filled the small screen; heavily made-up eyes imploring, chest in its black leather catsuit, heaving. She repeated her last line, resting a hand on the muscular arm of whichever superhero partner was currently rotating through her character’s bed. Tzipi could never keep track, all she remembered was each actor in the franchise had systematically starred in their own spin-off, while Kara patiently waited for the day.
Until then, her sister was just the love interest, a breathy interlude in their character arcs. Faking orgasms in Dolby surround sound, and raising stakes as the hero du jour, his signature theme song – and his net worth – soared.
