Somewhere in the Andes, Peru.

The bus grumbled its way through the Andes, gasping up each ascent. It was a two-story beast, dilapidated and dated, offering semi-cama seating. Thomas had drawn the line there. Held firm despite Nadia's protestations — all centred around the fact that they could find something much cheaper, if only they were willing to sit a little more upright. She refused his offer to pay for an upgrade. This was all she could afford.

He examined the seats. They were upholstered in a fuzzy grey material patterned with red and blue lines and triangles. The turquoise head protectors appeared — and smelled — like they hadn't been washed in years. Hell, the woman was too proud for her own good. And his, for that matter.

Thomas fidgeted and squirmed, trying to get comfortable for the umpteenth time. There just wasn't enough room. As he attempted to stretch out his legs, yet again, he kicked the seat in front of him. It wriggled and let out a discontented grunt. A stern face popped above it and glared down at him.

Thomas held up his hands in apology. "Disculpe, señor."

The man muttered something drowsily in Spanish and settled back down.

If only the seat reclined a little farther, he could lie sideways. A side sleeper, he was not impressed with the situation. He was damned frustrated, in fact. As he half-lay on his back, cramped and claustrophobic, he twisted his signet ring and reflected on the day.

He shouldn't have been so forward in the bus terminal, and he didn't have the foggiest notion where the behaviour had come from. That was a lie. Her flirting over lunch had sent a jolt of electricity through him. What had begun as a desire to comfort her, turned into red-blooded seduction. If he was going to seduce her — which he very much intended to do — he needed to slow down.

Nadia sat in the window seat. The glass behind her was dark and dotted with moisture from where her warm breath met the cold air. Occasional flashes of light from outside traffic bathed her skin in pale luminescence. She didn't look at him. Her eyes remained riveted on the ancient television at the front of the aisle, and her hands balled into fists at her side. She'd barely spoken since they boarded, just closed in upon herself. Her moods were a rollercoaster fluctuating between outbursts, light-hearted humour and now a cold wall of silence.

Was she unstable? It was plausible. Though she'd just got out of a mess of a relationship and he'd acted like a cad.

A sudden explosion filled the bus, followed by rapid Spanish. Contrary to the television's small size, it was deafening. The only proper way to enjoy a movie like Double Impact was loud — or so Nadia had said when he complained earlier. The driver apparently took this rule to heart. Nobody else seemed to care about the noise; they accepted the racket with calm stoicism.

He peered to his left. A toddler lay outstretched on his father's chest, both fast asleep. Thomas' sense of claustrophobia intensified. Neither of them flinched when the sound of Jean-Claude Van Damn fly kicking his opponent blasted through the vehicle.

A pang of envy crept over him. He wanted to sleep. He hated hovering in this fog between exhaustion and consciousness.

They'd departed at eight p.m. Five hours later than anticipated. His first taste of South American time. He inspected his Rolex — midnight, or six in the morning back home — then shook his head and pulled the hood of his coat down in an attempt to block out the light. The act was futile. Even if it had worked, it would have done nothing to address the litany of other problems. The seat felt constricting, he lay at the wrong angle, the TV had been turned up to maximum volume — oh, and yes, his bladder was full again.

He considered going back to the toilet and blanched as he recalled his earlier experience in that cubicle of horrors.

Some hours past, the driver had stopped to let vendors aboard. Desperate to relieve himself without the world swaying about him, Thomas leapt at the opportunity, squeezing past men carrying bags of peanuts, crisps and steaming baskets. Midstream, the bus had lurched into movement, sending him flying backwards into the dirty chrome wall, and a yellow spray across the tiny room. Still urinating, he managed to claw himself back up, plant his feet out wide and brace himself against the sticky door while he aimed the rest − more or less − into the bowl. The vehicle wove through the mountains all the while. And to top it all off, there had been no toilet paper or soap.

Sitting in his chair, Thomas made a list of things he would purchase at the next possible chance. Toilet paper, soap, hand sanitiser, eye mask, blow-up pillow and — Bang! — earplugs. The smell of urine registered as someone opened and shut the toilet door. Nose-plugs too. With hands hugged under his armpits, he pondered the comfort of all the accoutrements. The temperature had rapidly dropped with the increase in altitude, and so he added gloves and one of those woollen hats with llamas to the catalogue. They would make excellent souvenirs. Even better, Beatrice would be horrified if she saw him wearing one. He smiled at the thought, then grimaced.

Jean-Claud was speaking to a sultry blonde in out-of-sync Spanish, emotional inflection dripping from his mouth in thick globules. Thomas understood the general gist of the story: boy sees father killed, the boy grows up, the boy becomes a man and gets flexible, the man meets his twin, the men seek revenge, the man meets a beautiful girl and falls in love, the man beats the bad guys. He rolled his eyes.

"Was that a snicker?"

"Er ..."

Nadia turned to him; her face painted with sufferance. "You are going to need to develop an appreciation for the classics on this trip, Thomas," — she lifted a gloved hand and ticked off her fingers — "namely those movies featuring Jean-Claud Van Damn, Steven Segal and Chuck Norris. Learn to love them or suffer, my friend."

Thomas pointed at the screen with his right hand, keeping his left tucked away. "I would hardly rate this as a classic." He fought to keep his face straight. "If there was ever an example of B-grade hogwash, this is it."

She gazed at him, pointed teeth peeking out from a wicked smile. Her bad moods didn't last long, it was like she caught herself in the act and gave herself a mental nudge. He respected that.

Her hand patted his shoulder. "Thomas, Thomas, Thomas ... any movie that is A, over a quarter of a century old, B, badly dubbed in a foreign language and C, repeatedly played in spite of the aforementioned factors, is, by default, a classic." With arms crossed, she nodded her head with the self-satisfaction of a point well made.

He gave in. "A solid argument — have you thought about entering the law? My father might take you on in my place, and I could continue to live this life of luxury." He indicated their surroundings with the flick of a hand.

Nadia's smile broadened. "What, and sell what's left of my soul? Pfft, not on your life." She turned her head back to the movie, a smile still on her face.

Thomas kept his gaze on her, coziness suffusing his body. Her eyelids started to lower, and she yawned, raising her hand to her mouth in a childlike gesture. Her chest rose and fell. He wanted to touch her again.

The rain started to drum tinnily on the roof, barely audible over the cacophony. Nadia's shoulders slumped, her lids lowered further, and her head lolled as if trying to find a better position.

"Nadia."

"Mmm?"

"You can rest your head on my shoulder if you would like."

She stiffened.

"I won't try anything. I'd just rather one of us be somewhat comfortable." Lighting flashed in the distance. Thomas held his breath until his lungs wanted to burst.

After a time, Nadia eased her head on his shoulder.

"Khai never lets me do this," she said. "I always find it hard to sleep in a chair." A sigh escaped her as she slipped away.

A blaze of warmth grew in his chest and expanded until it reached his fingertips and toes. They were in no hurry. They had time, freedom and youth; they were on an adventure. Everything was fine. Thomas was vaguely aware of the video concluding as he dozed off beside her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Disculpe, señor  — Excuse me, sir

Image sourced on Pinterest (an opening scene from Double Impact).