I was sitting by the podium at the boarding gate. The pilots arrived, one by one, placing their luggage by the stand. The first pilot was gorgeous. So hot that I couldn't keep my eyes off him.
When it was time for the crew to enter, he took his bag, and as he passed me, he smiled and winked. I was just as giddy as I was when I was seventeen and went to that Doobie Brothers' concert, getting Michael McDonald's attention and having him wink at me!
"Homework?" the pilot asked, nodding toward the pile of papers in my lap.
"Uh, no, I'm uh. . .I'm a writer." Girl, since when did you stumble with words?
He nodded.
I was one of the first people on the plane. Entering the coach section, I eyed THAT pilot.
Straightening (he was adjusting something in a seat), he asked what I wrote.
"Short stories and poetry," I said, heading down the aisle to my seat.
When we landed, the crew had already departed by the time I got down to the door. In the airport, I got my bag from claims and went out the wrong door to be on the side of the building where I needed to be to get picked up.
I got directions on how to find my way to the other side of the airport. I went back in and looked for the numbered door I was supposed to exit. Not that side. I turned.
"Ah, the poet!"
The pilot stepped off the escalator.
"Are you following me?" I asked. Of course, I was hoping he'd say yes, heh heh.
He laughed.
We chatted.
"So where are you headed?" he asked.
"I'm trying to find my way out of here," I said.
"Well, I've got to get to a meeting," he said, turning toward the door. "It was my pleasure," he told me.
Uh, uh, Sweetie, it was all mine.
Sigh.
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