Friendly Skies

I struck up a conversation with a fire-tressed goddess. We bonded over our preflight jitters and she entered the cabin on my arm. The lights dimmed and her knuckles went white in my hand. I held my breath. She vomited on my loafers, and I fell in love. Sipping 7-Up at 30,000 feet, she let me stroke her hair, but my head was in the clouds—it couldn’t last. Our flight paths diverged in Milwaukee, our descent having been quick and inevitable. I wished her safe travels on her trip to Atlanta, or wherever her heart’s final destination might be.