Thx to anais mark, Kcerena & Kisvakondok for taking a first look and telling me it doesn't totally stink.
Reamhar is betaing this. Thank you!
I don't own Twilight.
1. The Twinkie
At Milan Malpensa Airport some time in January…
The rotund derrière attached to the woman in front of me is packaged in tight black leggings; the extra large t-shirt she wears can't even cover the vastness that is her ass; it's bunched up at her hips.
I tap my Sergio Rossi boots impatiently while I wait in a never-ending line of my fellow countrymen. It feels like it's taking forever and I'm late. My eyes longingly linger on the other gate; "EU Citizens Only" the sign above it reads. There's no line there.
I glance back at the people ahead of me, barely able to contain my pleasure at the sight.
"Honey," the fat lady with the large ass twangs, "do you know where your passport is?" She searches through her purple fanny pack and huffs in frustration before starting to search her other numerous other bags. "I don't see it anywhere."
"But Gertrude, you have it! I haven't even touched the goddamn thing," the guy next to her with a protruding beer belly dressed in a polo-shirt two sizes too small responds angrily, as if it be too much to ask to help search for his own passport. Instead, he hovers and stares down at her while she's crouched on the floor searching the bags for his passport.
Then, out of nowhere, a Tupperware container with barbeque sauce stains flies out of Gertrude's bag and lands on the floor with a clang followed by … a Twinkie!
Holy Mary Mother of Jesus!
First the smell of everything scrumptious that I'm not allowed to eat lingering on the plane and now this! My stomach growls and my fingers are itching.
Go grab it!
I haven't had one in ages and I want it. A pang of envy hits my empty stomach. It's preposterous – me, Isabella Swan, runway model extraordinaire – envious of the obese woman in front of me, but I can't help it, I am.
The red writing of the lovely Hostess wrapper entrances me and makes my gut churn … yellow soft cakey stuff with cream filling.
When the passport control officer waives to indicate that he's ready for the next person, I don't react. I should step around the couple, but I can't. My mouth is watering and drool might soon start dribbling down my chin if I don't concentrate on keeping my lips sealed.
Gertrude saves me from humiliation by stuffing the Twinkie back into her bag before exclaiming, "Look, Jerry! I found it!"
"I told you, I didn't have it!"
What an asshole.
They shuffle with their assortment of carry-on luggage, mostly in bright colors with flowers on them, to the booth where Gertrude hands the officer their passports with a wide smile.
"Hi, how are you?" she practically yells at the dark haired man, pronouncing every syllable as if he'd have difficulty hearing her. "We're here on holiday." The officer gives her a tight-lipped smile and doesn't respond. "We're staying in your lovely country for two whole weeks. One day in Milan, two days in Florence, one day in Venice…"
She continues rattling off their entire itinerary, despite the fact that the officer has handed her back their passports and has motioned for them to move.
Shut up, nobody gives a shit!
"…and then we are off to Rome. Jerry here wants to see the Coliseum…"
"Senora, please," the officer interrupts her. Thankfully Jerry pulls her away by her elbow.
"Come on, Trudi, we better go get our luggage before someone steals it."
Nobody wants your cheap, unflattering, made-in-China clothes. Your Twinkie on the other hand…
Before I can contemplate snatching Gertrude's bag to get to her Twinkie, I step forward and hand the officer my passport. The guy flips through the worn out pages, places a stamp in a random place and hands it back to me.
I reach for the Tom Ford sunglasses perched on top of my head and slide them on, before rushing off to claim my luggage. Gertrude and Jerry have managed to push themselves between some other passengers right near the hole where the suitcases keep tumbling out.
I stand back, ignoring the masses and check my iPhone 4S.
Izzie, where are you? In case you forgot you're staying at the Four Seasons. Call me as soon as you get there. You are booked for this afternoon. – Felix
Izzie, Stefano and Domenico want you. I told them you'd be there. The show starts at 3. Please hurry. – Felix
Izzie, I need you to call me now! Comprende? – Felix
I'm tempted to type I quit! And – oh, by the way – for your 411 – my name is I-S-A-B-E-L-L-A! But fuck it. Other than being 5'10" and skinny, I have no marketable skills to speak off. Before I could contemplate college, I was conned into walking down runways. I knew there was a drawback to what they were selling me-the career most girls only dream about. Please! Too late for regrets now. I'm stuck returning the call of my bitchy, little agent, Felix, who has apparently booked me for the rest of the week to the highest bidder.
Besides, I'm grateful that he didn't book me for London this year. New York, followed by a week-long break, Milan and next week Paris. Then the circus is over for a while. I exhale and compose myself.
I'm on my way, Felix! Picking up luggage right now. – Isabella, I reply before tossing the phone back into my Givenchy python and look for my suitcase.
The crowd around the belt starts thinning out, but my nondescript black suitcase is nowhere to be seen.
My gaze stumbles and halts upon a tall figure leaning casually against a column and staring in my direction. I noticed him on the plane before. He sat one row behind me to be exact, but due to the lack of face-to-face time, I didn't get to appreciate him fully. He's complete and utter Man-Candy. The face is chiseled perfection, his body lean and well proportioned. And the clothes…
Rag & Bone jeans, Belstaff jacket and Lanvin sneakers – what a fashion whore! Felix would approve and attempt to devour him whole.
Something seems strangely familiar about him. I'm certain I've seen those dark, brooding eyes somewhere before, but where? Possibly a male model on his way to fashion week … young, tall and sweet enough, I think, seizing up his impressive frame. I flip mentally through the men's wear ads, but come up blank. Nope, that's not where I've seen him before.
I narrow my eyes to inspect him further. He keeps on looking over making me worry something's out of place in my ensemble, though I know that's impossible. Everything – from my freshly highlighted hair to this season's boots – is in perfect harmony and the size zero clothes hang on me like they were designed to. Squirming under his intense gaze, I shift my eyes to the luggage carrousel; still no sign of my suitcase and only three pieces of luggage are circling.
Man-Candy and I are the only two people left standing near the luggage belt. I wonder what he's waiting for, when I pull the sunglasses away from my tired eyes and search for the airline counter. One corner of his mouth twitches up when our eyes collide for a brief moment and, as if on cue, my phone starts vibrating.
"Yes, Felix," I answer, running to the counter to inform the shit airline that they've managed lose my luggage – yet again!
Thank you for reading.