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established, for the seventh time,
that even with the delay, I wasn’t going to be late. No, it wasn’t a lack of
time that agitated me. It was the thought of seeing Alex Race again.
    It had been a week since his last flight and since I had
last seen him. I’d wanted to give him the number of my cell as we’d stood
awkwardly on the tarmac, aware that we could be seen and wanting desperately to
say ‘goodbye’ in a way that reflected the passion we’d shared that afternoon.
However, we professionally parted ways, with me unwilling to offer my phone
number in case I seemed like an inexperienced, clingy teenager.
    The last seven days, which should have been a vacation, have
actually been anything but. Left alone with my thoughts, I’ve been driving
myself crazy; reliving every second of that afternoon and finding all the ways
in which I may have disappointed him.
    It was ridiculous. And part of me knew that.
    Alex hadn’t acted as if he were remotely unhappy or
dissatisfied with my performance or my body. But my sheltered adolescence and
comparative inexperience created insecurities that I was not strong enough to
battle alone.
    So, as I sat in the unmoving car, I began to berate myself.
‘He won’t be as pleased to see you as you are to see him,’ I silently
remonstrated. ‘Just get a grip.’
    After an uncomfortable thirty minutes, I finally made it to
Teterboro Airport. Getting out of the car, I quickly fastened my scarlet neck
scarf and found myself blushing like a prudish Victorian maiden when I was
suddenly struck with the recollection of his fingers removing it. Pulling
myself together, I strode to the office, signed in and then went out onto the
runway.
    Some maintenance guys were just clearing away their
equipment after washing ‘Make a Wish’ inside and out. They nodded politely to
me as I approached the plane.
    “We’re all done, Ma’am,” one of them smiled.
    The usual day-to-day cleaning of the interior was usually my
job. But after she’d been sitting idle for several days, the larger crew was
instructed to give the plane a thorough cleaning.
    “Thanks,” I replied with a courteous smile.
    It was only once they passed me that I began to wonder
whether they’d seen something that would reveal what Alex and I had done in
there. Again, I felt my cheeks burn. Again, I tried to talk some sense into
myself. Even if they did find evidence that someone had had sex, they would
have no way of knowing who it had been. Of course, given that I was often the
only woman on the plane, they might draw a conclusion, but they could not know
for sure. With a nod of confidence in that thought—which I still did not
entirely believe—I gripped the handrail and ascended the steel steps that led
me into the cabin.
    I found the cockpit door open, the pilot leaning against it
with a clipboard tightly held in his hand.
    “Morning, Melissa,” he said, tapping the end of his
ballpoint pen against his bottom teeth.
    “Morning,” I quickly replied, heading as fast as possible to
the relative safety of the rear of the plane. I pretended to sort through some
supplies, checking that we had enough coffee, tea, and other drinks. My rush to
get away from him was driven by nothing more than rampant paranoia. Did he
know? Was there a way for the cockpit to listen in on what happened in the
cabin? Was there a way for him to see what went on in the cabin?
    By the time he finished his preflight routine, I was a
nervous wreck.
    And then things got worse. I heard the quick, energetic
footsteps of someone jogging up the airstairs. There was only one person who
bounded into the plane with that much energy.
    Ducking his tall frame under the entry archway, he appeared
in the cabin; all bright, sparkling dark eyes and blinding smile. “Morning,
Dan,” he greeted the pilot.
    “Hi, Alex,” he replied.
    “Morning, Melissa,” my employer called, lifting a hand from
one pocket and waving to me across the long plane’s