Hurricane Season

         When Captain Cramden announces that we are making our initial decent, it is about 3:30 a.m. local time. We should be on the ground in twenty minutes. Scott and I help Bobbi straighten and secure the galley for landing while the others disappear into other parts of the plane. Once everything is in tiptop shape, Scott and I make our way back to our seats in the mid-cabin.

         As Scott and I pass through first class, everyone seems to be awake now, and most of the women are primping and preening in anticipation of our arrival. Michelle Maddox is brushing her hair while one of the Italian pilots seated across the aisle is tucking his shirt into his trousers.

         I try not to look for Marco, but I can’t seem to control my eyes from looking in the general direction of where he and Miriam are seated. I catch a glimpse of Miriam holding up a tiny mirror while applying a new coat of thick red lipstick to her craggy lips. But there is no Marco.

         A zing of adrenaline shoots through my body as I realize that Marco isn’t where I thought he would be. I try to shake it off, but my thighs feel heavy at the prospect of another encounter. I try to squeeze that thought out of my mind as Scott and I head toward our seats.

         Suzanne Keller and Marta DeSoto are cleaning up the mid-cabin galley. Things are looking pretty messy, so I stop to offer some help. As I step into the galley and start picking up empty bottles and used napkins, Suzanne just looks at me with a big smile.

         “You should just go to your seat, Miss Elle,” Marta says with a knowing smile. “I think someone has an admirer!” Marta and Suzanne both start laughing.

         “What?” I say as confusion mixed with curiosity enters my mind.

         “Just go look!” Suzanne says as she practically rips the empty water

bottle out of my hand and nudges me out of her way.

         Casually, so as not to seem too excited, I glide out of the galley and head toward my seat. Scott is shoving folded blankets and pillows into the overhead compartments as I approach our area. He has a look on his face that I can’t quite place. It is a cross between annoyed and amused.

         When I reach my row, I look down at the open tray table. A small Smirnoff Vodka bottle rests right in the center with a paper rose made out of a red cocktail napkin and a coffee stirrer for the stem. Next to the bottle is another red cocktail napkin with a note. I reach down and pick it up.

         It’s written in dark black ink that bled a bit on the napkin, so the lettering is thick and hard to read. But the heart shaped squiggle is unmistakable, and the initials “MM” are still readable.