VERLOIS, REPUBLIC OF GAULLICA
11th February, 2018
Negara.
Evelyn could see it was on his mind.
She sat, now cross-legged, an absent mind. In the cool of the Boffrand Airport's waiting lounge. Beside her an ornate designer bag, pink in colour, with fancy zips and lovely clasps and buttons that kept all her belongs prim and proper, tucked away for none to see. Not that there was much. A rosary. A locket with pictures of each of their children. A photo of their dog. Her make-up kit. Somewhere in there there must've been a pack of chewing gum, cinnamon in flavour -- the only one she could stomach. And somewhere else in there, her phone, scarcely used, buried beneath the aforementioned mountain.
First Lady of the Republic and here she sat, watching her husband stand so close to the windows that looked out onto the tarmac that his nose could've been pressed against it, like a child who was too curious for his own good. She could see, even from here, that his breath was condensing on the windows from how close he was.
"Jean..." she began, her eyes progressively rolling over towards him. "What on Kylaris are you doing?" Her hands, worn and old, picked up the magazine she had discarded rather promptly earlier. Headlines scrawled across the front page, some tabloid crap about the latest 'health trend' or something of that ilk, whereby you could lose fat by just rubbing butter on the outside of your eyelids.
The President of Gaullica turned, his hands neatly clasped together behind his back. "Waiting, my dear." He stepped forward, his pointed black dress shoes pressing against the ground ever-so-lightly. "These things are an awful bore to wait for, as you know. Now, I've gotten a bit tired of these last few minutes."
For an immensely busy airport, this section had been cleared out just half an hour ago, when the presidential duo had arrived. Its few patrons who sat idly buy, waiting in the lounge, reimbursed some money, nothing much, and told to leave for safety purposes. Now aside from the two there stood about a dozen guardsmen, dressed in an Asterian fashion of black suits, adorned in sunglasses and earpieces and all.
One tapped his ear decisively, and Vallette was himself distracted by the plane touching down on the tarmac. It was slick, nothing like one of those passenger planes that would frequent this port much more often. Nay, this was... governmental, almost royal.
"Mr President?" the guardsman began, walking forward. "The Prime Minister has landed."
"Good!" Vallette said now, excitedly - though it was merely a formality. He had deduced that from the plane landing. "Let us move to the awaiting convoy. I trust the attaché you picked out is present for Mr Terada to guide him to us?"
The guardsman could only nod.