Both her stomach and the airplane gave an almighty lurch as both Linda and the rest of the airborne passengers flew over what remained of Nebraska. "Still another twenty-six hours," sighed Linda as she looked at her watch, which pointed to a seven and an eight. Linda never forgot to be gramatically correct, even when sighing something as simple as "Still another twenty-six hours."
"Still another twenty-six hours....."
She couldn't bear to finish the sentence. Timothy was just too gorgeous, too stunning, too bearded, too.... British. She instead pondered why the last thought was priviledged to a new paragraph when her first was not. Of course, it was so obvious, she thought, as her self-proclaimed photographic memory kicked in high gear. Clause Seven of the Linda Grammatical Act specifically stated that when a thought was repeated, such as "Still another twenty-six hours," followed by precicely five, not three, dots, also called ellipsis, it was entitled to a new paragraph. Clause Seven has much too many commas to slip past the godly grammar checker of Microsoft Word®, but that nitpick shall be left untouched, for Linda's Microsoft Word® was broken at the time of the writing of the Linda Grammatical Act. She had to resort to her clackitty TypeRiteR 500®. Clause Seven also stated that random new paragraphs in fanfiction were absolutely essential to allow for dramatic moments and angsty buildup. Why a new paragraph equals dramatic moments and angsty buildup, we shall never know, but as it is clearly stated in Clause Seven, fanfiction must follow it's laws. Consequently, in subordinance to Clause Eight, fanfiction work must show a clear misunderstanding of the use of "its," "it's," and "its'," as well as "too," "two," and "to," "your" and "you're," and a slew of other commonly misused homonyms. Clause Eight also hints that wrong word usage in fanfiction is sine qua nons.
Linda was much too wrapped up in her own musings of the brilliance of her Linda Grammatical Act, especially of Clause Seven and Eight, to notice that both the food trolley and the rancidly uniformed stewardess had gone by. She was about to call them back when she looked down at her lap to find her lunch tray there, along with a plastic glass of Perrier.
"Now wait a minute," you might say, "it's either 7:40 or 8:35!! Why is it lunch??" Well, my impatient and all-too-assuming dears, it just so happens that our dear old Linda forgot to wind up her clock today. In reality, it is precicely one o'clock and the sun shined as brightly as it ever did at one o'clock. Down below, Nebraska bared its nothingness to its fullest, or as well as it ever could at one o'clock, but could not compete with the sun. The fools.
Linda started on what she supposed was a turkey sandwich. "mmmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMM," she exclaimed out loud, oblivious to the appalled faces that turned. This was turning out to be one hell of an airplane ride. She ate one half of the sandwich ravenously, then carefully rewrapped the other half and stowed it in her purse. Or maybe it was a Grade AA Fancy diaper bag. Either way, the thing was huge. When she arrived at London, she would meet up with Timothy straightaway and give him this sandwich. Perhaps over a candlelit dinner on the balcony of his favourite theatre. She giggled at the erotic thought.
And oh yes, OH YES, Timothy Dalton! She almost came at the thought. Their last and only meeting occured twenty-five years ago, when Linda had traveled the broad seas far and wide to land at last upon the island of Great Britain. It was purely chance how they met, fate working its' clever hands, God smiling down upon them, Demeter showing them mercy......
Linda and Timothy caught each other's eyes, and froze. They stared in the infinitismal depths of the other's eyes, entranced by what they saw in them. Perhaps a river, perhaps a lake, perhaps a world filled with walking dogs and cats. Whatever they saw, they were entranced. By what they saw. They slowly leaned closer, their hot breaths tickling the napes of their necks.....
Linda made the first move.
She slowly lifted her right hand from the rigid position at her side in which it had been moments ago, and reached up to his neck. She gingerly touched the top button of his polo shirt. Her orange nails contrasted so nicely to the green buttons and brown shirt, she thought. She fondled it fondly, observing how perfectly chipped the button had become from years of wear. "Only great actors such as Timothy Dalton could chip such perfect chippings in buttons so worn," thought Linda. Timothy seemed to have read her thoughts.
"So you like my button, eh?"
"What?" said Linda, startled, withdrawing her hand quickly, because, as both she and Timothy knew, it was she, not he, nor anyone else, that had, in fact, been fondling, quite fondly at that, the buttons, not the brown ones, but the green ones, at the top, not the bottom, of Timothy Dalton, not Linda's, shirt.
"I mean, YEEES," orgasmed Linda. She carefully undid the top button, noting how the chipped places of the buttons fit in exactly with the worn cloth around it as her fingers pushed and pulled the buttons through. She noticed how the button felt underneath her fingers, so firm, so round, so button-like. Not only button-like, but of the Timothy Dalton kind. She noticed how perfectly one end of the button passed through the hole, to meet the rest of the button on the other side. She smiled. It was so much like playing London Bridge is Falling Down. And so appropriately too, considering their location. She beamed at how she freed the button of its cloth imprisonment most enchantingly, revealing masses and masses of dark, thick, curly chest hair underneath.
"OOoooooooooooh," moaned Linda.
"WILL TIMOTHY DALTON AND HIS BACKPACK FINALLY RETURN TO WHERE HE AND IT OUGHT TO BE." boomed the loudspeaker in a thick Welsh accent.
Timothy jumped in surprise, then stuffed the scattered papers haphazardly into his backpack.
"This is where I leave you, my dear Linda!" cried Timothy as he began running towards the main road.
"Wait, how did you know my name?" cried Linda in return.
"We were just meant to *be*, like we were *one*, like we were meant to *be* *together*, *asterisks* *and* *all*. Of *course* I *know* *your* *name*," called Timothy, "we shall not meet for a very long time, but when we do, it shall be most wonderful!"
Linda's knees gave way, leaving her and her best apple picking dress in the muddy road. She closed her eyes, allowing Timothy's words to wash over her like water. Or sand. Not meet for a very long time, but when we do........
Linda sighed as the turkey sandwich worked its way along Linda's intestinal tracts. At last, after all these long years, she would be able to meet Timothy. Timothy, whose hairy chest was so hairy. Timothy, whose backpack was so backpack. Timothy, who was just so.... Timothy. She shuddered with pleasure at the thought.
Yes, yes, twenty-five hard, long, years without Timothy. In twenty-five years, she gave birth to and married two kids and a husband. (She didn't give birth to the husband or marry her two kids, no, but such is the nature of fanfiction writers to misplace phrases.) Not to mention school and its extracirricular activities, all of in which she insisted she must participate. Twenty-five long years, until the chance finally came, when Io and Jupiter were both at the focal point of Mars, the sun and the moon were posterior to Mercury, all while Saturn did a double pirouette while Venus watched in shock. Her husband was away on some business trip, and she had managed an excuse to fly to London. Strictly for academic competition reasons, she told the school. She sighed at her own brilliance of her brilliant plan. If only others and their plans could be as brilliant as she. But she secretly was relieved that others were not as brilliant as she, for if they were, she would no longer be brilliant and just plain ordinary. And an ordinary Linda was much worse than no Linda at all, she thought. But worse than that was an ordinary Linda without bananas. She shuddered in horror at the thought.
And who knows? Maybe this time, there would be time to undo not one, but two buttons of Timothy Dalton's shirt. Perhaps, if he wore the same shirt of the day of their chance meeting, she would be able to see three button spaces worth of Timothy Dalton's hairy chest with 'its dark, curly, thick, plentifully hairy chest hairs..
She didn't know what to do if that happened. Three buttons! The anticipation would probably send her over the edge before she even touched the second button.
She sighed happily once more, and snuggled happily against the window. "Mmmmmmmmm," she murmured, imagining the windowpane to be the rising and falling dark, curly, thick, and plentifully hairy chest of Timothy Dalton and dozing off to sleep as the last of Nebraska slipped past her window.