Plane trip. The stewardess is wearing army green, the colour’s toughness offset a bit by the fact that her outfit’s low cut in front and frilly. The cleavage isn’t bad, but it’s too early to focus on it. I’m more concerned with keeping my eyes open and making sure I don’t fall asleep, slobbering on the shoulder of the businessman next to me.

She passes me a tiny packet of airplane snack mix, the kind with gluey powdered cheese that sticks to your fingers long after the pretzel sticks are gone.

“Would you like something to drink, young man?” the stewardess asks. Her name, Judith, sticks out vulgarly, pinned directly over her left breast.
“No thanks,” I mumble. I hadn’t remembered my voice being so deep. Maybe it was decaying from disuse, fermenting somewhere near my esophagus.

We’ve been steady in the air for forty-seven minutes.