She must be his mistress. Certainly not the wife. He hugged her too closely. Too passionately…. lovingly. He smiled and blushed. She melted in his arms, gushing in the tenderness of his sweet embrace. They barely noticed when I sat my small travel bag beside her in seat 26A. C/B/A 26 was located at the point of a side-exit door, and the three of us had bargained with the flight attendant (for the privilege to sit near the exit door) that we could lift more than 50 pounds, and that we would gladly and willingly help other passengers to safety in case of a landing emergency. Such a strange request. If the plane had to make an “emergency landing” (a euphemism for “OH MY FUCKING GOD!!! THE PLANE IS CRASHING AND WE’RE ALL GONNA FUCKING DIE!!) I would be too thrilled and grateful to aid survivors from a wrecked airplane crash, wouldn’t one think?.
Loverboy couldn’t keep his hands off of Dirty Diana. She looked 45 years old, sun-bleached blond, modest tits slightly exposed under a soft blue cashmere button-up resting over her arms and shoulders, snuggled, caressing her feminine mystique. She finally looked up at me, smiling as though she were concealing some forbidden secret. She had nice teeth, great smile, slender hips, polished toes, French manicure, and young-girl legs with cool zippers on her jeans. Her purple leotard top had a gaudy broach resting at the middle of her supple cleavage, and she flashed me a wicked smile when I turned to sit next to her. She looked like a young Nancy Sinatra, I thought to myself, noticing a bottle of water, a cup of oatmeal bran, and a Home Journal magazine resting on her lap. She had nice poise – not a Sophisticated Lady, though – and I could certainly see why he was infatuated with her. He held on to her tightly, so affectionate and tender and loving, as though he did not want to lose her for anything in the world. This woman did not seem to be his wife. He wore an expensive wedding ring, her wedding finger was bare. I smiled at the obviousness of their secret love affair, and I wondered if his wife would be waiting for him at Detroit Metropolitan Airport. Perhaps there would be children too. Daddy, daddy! Welcome home! I took my seat beside Romeo and Juliet, read last-minute texts, set my music, and pulled out my latest review copy of Francine Craft’s Dying On The Edge….(click on book to continue on June 6)