Ouch, I thought to myself. Once again William’s commonsense banter hit the bull’s-eye. I had to give him props.

We finally reached the Transcontinental terminal. “Well, thanks for the ride,” I said, grabbing my bag from the backseat as I closed the door and stepped to the curb.

“Good luck. And bon appétit. ” William smiled as he drove off.

I entered the airport, strutting down the aisle like Naomi Campbell working a runway. The cameras flashed, and the buyers cheered. I was Mahogany, and BWI airport had transformed itself into Fashion Week at the famed Prêt-à-Porter. I was a hit. Head high, hips switching, bob bouncing, I could see the vendors whispering to their homies, “Damn, she’s fly!”

Ticket agents nearly broke their necks wondering who it was they were seeing. “Who is that?” they whispered, leaving a line of anxious passengers angry and restless. Even female flight attendants from other airlines were staring. Hating. Glaring. Wondering why their uniforms didn’t fit like mine. “Who does she think she is?” they muttered, bitter and jealous.

I don’t think, I know who I am. The new and improved Montana Moore, I affirmed to myself, as I acted like I dropped something. I turned around, and walked past them again, this time giving them even more drama. Switching harder, bob bouncing, highlights reflecting off the airport light, I was giving them drama. While they were player hating, I was celebrating. With a devilish grin, I smiled, knowing they wished they could be me. Finally I arrived at my gate.

While passengers boarded the plane, heads turned. Coffee and tea spilled as I worked the plane, strutting up and down the aisle giving them drama. From first class, to business, to coach, I wasn’t stingy. I was more than happy to share with the entire plane who and what I had transformed myself into. I even peeked into the cockpit to speak to the captain.

“Good morning!” I eased through my MAC lip-glossed lips.

“Good morning,” the captain responded, barely believing his eyes. As I closed the cockpit doors, all I heard were the sounds of high fives and whistles. I was even giving the captains drama.

And it didn’t stop there.

“Would you like sugar or cream with your coffee?” I asked an older gentleman obviously pleased with my look.

“Neither,” he responded. “Just stick your finger in the cup and that’ll be all the sweet I need,” he said, winking.

“That wouldn’t be sweet. That would be diabetes,” I said, returning his wink.

Finally, we arrived in Houston. The moment of truth was only seconds away. I quickly boarded Flight 702 with non-stop service to New York. Since Damon always flew first class, I made sure I worked coach, wanting to catch him off-guard.