It's all pudding's fault.

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-23

Suddenly, the plane began to convulse violently. I awoke with a start, as if thrown into a deep purple, ever-expanding vortex of clouds, where flames, thunder, and rain columns formed a closed circle like the stands of a gladiatorial arena.

This was not the prelude to a plane crash, but rather a olfactory catastrophe—the plane continued its steady flight in the stratosphere toward King Khalid International Airport, the capital of Saudi Arabia, Riyadh, bathed in sunlight like the frescoes on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. My fellow passengers were enjoying their lunch, simultaneously tearing open their food packaging. The aroma of butter, syrup, cream, and cheese—enough for three hundred people—instantly engulfed the cabin like seawater filling a sinking ship. At that moment, I felt surrounded by three hundred miniature volcanoes, all erupting in unison with the rich, cheesy scent of Western food, crackling and spewing thick smoke. I lazily squeezed into my economy class seat, quietly pulling off my bra from under the blanket. A long flight, I wanted to relax. I covered my nose with the blanket and closed my eyes to rest.

I'm 32 years old, recently divorced, and have remained chaste ever since. Thanks to my decent qualifications—fluent foreign languages, a striking appearance, a tall, mature figure, and an open yet gentle personality—I managed to secure a small position in a state-owned enterprise. This trip from Beijing to the Middle East was to look for merger and acquisition opportunities. I pondered the focus and plan of this business trip, thinking and thinking, when suddenly… "Excuse me." A slightly magnetic voice drifted over from the purgatory-like silence.

It was a handsome, tall, warm-hearted Western man, sitting to my left by the window. He looked to be about forty, with thick eyebrows and a high, Gothic nose somewhat resembling Leonardo DiCaprio

, and thick blond hair. He repeated in heavily accented British English, "Excuse me, don't you want that?" He blinked his grey-blue eyes shyly, gazing at me with deep affection, gesturing at the untouched caramel cheese pudding in front of me.

I was almost speechless with surprise and simply pushed the pudding towards him. After thanking me, he blinked again, confirming, "Are you really not going to eat it? Should I trade this for it?" His fingers hurriedly rummaged through the half-eaten ham sandwich, vegetable salad, and milk carton, finding an unopened bread roll. I wanted to tell him that I was incredibly

grateful to have such a handsome guy like Leonardo DiCaprio eating my caramel pudding, which I didn't like. But I could only glance at him and offer an elegant smile. He happily sipped his spoon, stealing glances at me—or rather, at my plate. So, I extended my slender hand in an elegant "please go ahead" gesture, which he gladly accepted. After the flight attendants collected the passengers' meal trays, the peaceful moment finally returned. We began to chat happily.

"This is the first time I've met someone who doesn't like pudding," he said, wiping his mouth and flashing a charming smile. I had no choice but to confess that I have severe allergies, including some allergy to dairy products. Whenever I travel to Europe for business, I always choose hotels near supermarkets or restaurants...

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