Diet Coke no ice, Club soda with lime, coffee with cream, the never ending beverage service, that’s what I’m doing when I hear the muffled sound of a cell phone ringing. I shove a plastic scoop into a drawer of empty ice and trudge to the front of the aircraft wearing combat boots. In the first class galley is where I make the announcement, that it’s time to put away and stow all electronic devices – anything with an on and off switch – we’ll be landing soon. As I’m walking down the aisle checking each row for compliance, I notice my bra, pink satin, is on the outer side of my uniform dress. I sprint to the back of the plane when I hear it again, the Ice Castles theme song. Stopping dead in my tracks, I spin around. That’s when it hits me. That’s my special ring!
“Flight Attendant Connors,” mumbles a manly voice in my ear. My body quivers when I feel his mouth on the back of my neck, the palm of his hand running up the length of my leg, pushing my skirt up along with it. I inhale. I don’t exhale. Oh my.
Gasping for breath, I bolt straight up in bed. I’m awake. Well sort of. Then again, not really. My head hits the pillow and my eyes close. Water, I need water. There’s no way I’m getting out of bed to get it. My head is throbbing. The thought of moving, let alone standing, practically kills me. Just when did it get so hot in here? I kick the covers off, toss and turn, but then I get cold, real cold, so I reach for the covers, pull them halfway up my leg and…and…what was that? No longer am I dreaming I’m on an airplane. Nor am I in a dumpy airport hotel. My eyes are wide open now. I’m in an apartment. A very nice apartment. Fuck!
I think what I really meant to say is FUCK FUCK FUCK! Because my bed, you see, is white and fluffy. This bed is big and blue and, well, very nice. The room, it’s nothing like mine; small, light and cheery, cluttered with clothes and paperback books. This room is huge and dark and meticulously clean. Need I mention there’s a man, a naked man that I do not know lying in this strange bed beside me. Based on his broad muscular shoulders and dark black hair, it looks like he might be hot. Not that it matters. Really.
Pulling what has to be 100,000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets up to my chin, I remind myself that life is about the choices we make. And more importantly it’s about taking responsibility for those choices. Even the bad ones. Like this one. Because what we do, what we say, what we even think, impacts us in ways we can not imagine in the future. This is what I tell my friends whenever they come to me for advice on love, life, men, whatever. It’s the same thing I’ve chosen to live my own life by, which is why I can say with the utmost certainty that I’ve made all the right choices in my short twenty-eight years.