Cock Pit

Every alarm on the 747's flight deck is ringing and only compounds my joy. The Ground Proximity Warning System is commanding “Whoop, whoop, pull-up”. The Collision Avoidance System alerts "traffic, traffic, climb, climb now". Red and amber lights flash all over the console and I rock my airplane’s wings for all it's worth. My adrenaline is exuberantly wired in with the sirens. The bells and whistles only heighten the moment, because I'm buzzing a US aircraft carrier, legally. It started on a layover in Hong Kong. I was enjoying a meal at my favorite Italian restaurant. My dinner companion was an oil painting of a Mediterranean woman, with a mustache. The lamb Osso Buco was melting in my mouth, when I noticed a tasty-looking fellow walk by. This was not normal. I notice some more good-looking men roaming around outside. At first, it was only a couple of glimpses, but they started oozing in like spaghetti through a colander. I thought I ordered the “hot tea”, but I was really getting the hotties. They gush around the red and white checkerboard tables. I’ve been to Hong Kong hundreds of times but have never seen such biologically appropriate specimens. The British have been scarce since the reclamation, but these guys aren’t British. None of them are wearing skinny jeans. It occurs to me that statistically, I should be able to target a potential boyfriend tonight. My relationship with Steve didn’t progress during our ski trip. A freak warm front came through and it rained on the third day. We ended up walking downhill in our ski boots on solid ice, carrying our skies. The last few miles were in darkness, but we were just trying to get out before our wet clothes froze again. Some provocative guys take a seat adjacent to me. They possess the overconfident personage, bred into military pilots since the beginning of their flight training. But I suspect they're born with it.