What were the odds of me being seated next to Maris?
Ms Willowy leaned my way. “Excuse me,” she said, “but haven’t we met before?” Fat chance, I thought. Ms Willowy might have at least dangled a gratuitous hint, like maybe “in junior high?” or “that time in Timbuktu?” But as no clue was forthcoming and coquetry didn’t seem to be her jam, I concluded she must be sincere yet uncertain.
Folding six-feet-four into a coach seat on a flight bound for LAX I tried meditating my half-century-old legs into believing sitting ramrod on the aisle for four hours would be a corrective for my habitual slouchiness.
Seconds before the plane doors closed a long-branched woman provided momentary relief as I stood to give her access to the window seat. After climb-over Ms Willowy ordered sparkling water and I went for twist-top chardonnay.
From somewhere behind a man’s voice pealed, “Fiona is a slut!”
“Jackson,” came a female’s dulcet retort. “Your sister is not a slut. Fiona is a whore.”