THE JOURNEY. | @radiostvr
There was an unease to this, an unease to how little uneasy he felt. Newton’s impulses. He knew they needed controlled. They’d been beyond him when he booked the flight. Little better now, as he walked down the gangplank. It would be little time until he’d meet her. Next to Mrs. Perón, Newton was nothing. You could run a multinational corporation monopolising several fields of trade and you still wouldn’t be a President’s spouse. But the decision had been made. There was no backtracking now.
He had himself a car arranged. Diplomatic plates. He’d forgotten it. Oh, yes, they took him that seriously. With billions of dollars in the bank, anyone would take you seriously. His head still hurt from that unnatural velocity, and his joints felt shaken out of place, and he clung to that half-finished airline catering gin as though it were an amulet. Still, Newton walked on. His pace was unsteady, but his vision was sharpening. He’d be alright soon. He could be better off not having to ride in any more vehicles.
It was a stumble into the car, but there would be no hassle now. A quick instruction to the driver. Chauffeur. “May I request that you drive quite slowly? I, ah. I have migraine trouble.” A life without excuses would be nice, but it would never happen here. Newton’s frailty was a matter of his own, exclusively. No one would believe him were he to tell the truth!
