Finally reaching the baggage claim terminal, I exited the revolving security doors and…and…and…there he was—Graham. He was dressed in a thick camel-colored cashmere overcoat that stylishly complemented what lay beneath: a chocolate-brown suit with light caramel pinstripes. Oh yeah, it was Graham. Hat cocked to the side covering his rich dark hair, skin glistening, and teeth neon white. Fo sho nuff, it was Graham. Holding his signature single long-stemmed red rose, thank God from whom all blessings flow, it was Graham.

As he stood there with one arm extended, posing like he had just been crowned Ebony Man of the Millennium, he slowly opened his lips and mouthed, “Do you want my arm to fall off?”

With the majesty of Mufasa, Graham made his approach. When he reached me, he gently stroked the side of my face. With a baritone voice that vibrated throughout the terminal, while simultaneously sporting a smile that could melt the entire continent of Antarctica, Graham spoke.

“Montana.” Always taking time for a dramatic pause, again he called my name. “Montana…you look unbelievable. More beautiful than I remember.”

Coy and playful, I responded, “You must not have a good memory,” as we both stood gazing into each other’s eyes.

Locked into the moment, he grabbed both my arms firmly and in a warm yet intense tone whispered, “My hope is that soon our opportunity to spend time together will be dramatically more frequent, and I won’t have to rely on my memory.”

I felt the earth move. Graham led me through the airport’s sliding doors into the crisp Chicago evening as the words “nothing right, something wrong” vanished and were instantly replaced with the words “frequent” and “opportunity.” At last, I could exchange my frequent flyer miles for a frequent flying man. Frequent. Opportunity. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe I was Fanny Brice and holding my hand was Mr. Arnstein. Frequent. Opportunity.

Quickly we arrived at the parking lot where, just as I had imagined, Graham drove a Benz. Not just any Benz. The big one. The big black one. God, if this is a dream, may I never ever wake up. Graham popped his trunk with the remote, took my bag, and placed it in the trunk. He then walked over to the passenger side and opened my door. Graham opened my door first. For that alone, I’m gonna give you some. Graham was good. He was a gentleman. Easing his big black cashmere-covered body into his big black-leather seat, Graham was good. All good.

“Is the temperature okay?” he asked as he wrapped his big black hands around his big black steering wheel.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I responded, wrapped in my coat like Nanook of the north.