Aged like a fine wine, vintage like a well-kept coat, seasoned like a steak from Ruth’s Chris, eyes still sparkling like newly polished china, face smooth like melted butter, skin tough as leather yet supple as lambskin. Go on, Quinton, you multi-millionaire textile guru, CEO of Jamison Enterprises. Looking like you just finished a chocolate-flavored viagra shake. I ain’t mad at’cha, Quinton! Looking like the black bionic man. Better, stronger, faster. If the six-million-dollar man got a six-million-dollar raise, he’d still be six million dollars short. Short of your style, your flair, short of the essence that emanates from every pore of your body. Go on, Quinton.

“Flight attendants, prepare the cabin for take off.”

Quinton was about twenty years my senior. A self-made man. Like a Ford truck, he was built to last, unmovable like a mountain, powerful like a locomotive, yet at the same time, gentle like a dove. Like your grandfather’s clock, he always had time. Time to do whatever he pleased. Time to do for her whatever would appease. It was less than an hour’s flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles, so whatever I had to do, I had to do it quickly.

Like a cheetah stalking my prey, I lay in wait for my perfect chance to get his attention. First, I would have to wait for the other ghetto Cinderellas to get out of his face. Look at them, giggling and staring, wiggling and baring all of their soul, or at least whatever was left of it. But Quinton wasn’t the kind of man who was easily impressed, you silly rabbits. Tricks are for kids.

I met Quinton nearly a year ago. It was the perfect chance encounter. I was hurrying to make my flight and he noticed my scarf slipping from my neck. Stepping from his black stretch limousine, he yelled, “Excuse me, Miss.”

Turning, I was frozen like Lot’s wife, but not by Gomorrah’s fire. I was frozen by my longing desire for a black knight on his white horse, or in this case, his black limousine, which was more than an acceptable substitute. For months after, frequent muses turned frequent excuses turned nothing. It was over. Not because of drama, or tension, or anything negative. It just ended like it never was. Like it was a dream. Clearing my throat, waiting for the coast to clear, I made my way forward. Wetting my lips, switching my hips, I was seconds away when I suddenly heard a voice barreling through the loudspeaker.

“We are experiencing severe turbulence. Passengers, please return to your seats with seatbelts fastened.”

Passengers? Thank God he was only talking to passengers.

“Oh, and flight attendants too.”

Imagine hips switching in reverse as I stumbled, barely reaching my seat, fastening my belt, and holding on for dear life during what turned out to be one of the most violent bouts of turbulence I had ever experienced.