by Julia Mcconnell

Created on: September 16, 2009

The thump of the landing gear as the wheels were lowered into position brought Michaela out of the daydream. She stretched, arched her back slightly, and eased back into the seat, rolling her head in a slow circular motion. She raised the window blind and looked out the small oval window. The weather was overcast: the plane crashed into a wet cloud that scattered over the plane's skin leaving tiny pellets of liquid on the silver surface. They trembled for a moment and slipped off the slickness of the wing into the gray ocean of mist below.

Michaela Russo was an attractive brunette, tall by most standards; model thin except for a full bosom. She was twenty-eight years old and divorced.

What the hell am I doing her? she thought.

You're in love, dummy, came the unspoken answer. That's what you're doing here.

True, all true: she was in love. Deeply, irrationally, unreasonably, sophomorically in love.

The plane banked steeply to the left and she could see the ground. Stephen was somewhere down there waiting. The thought that she would see him caused her face to flush and her throat tightened. She took a deep breath.

She had known Stephen for eight years. They had both been married when they first met, she to James, he to Sarah. Tragically, Sarah had been killed in an automobile accident.

The renewal of her friendship with Stephen had occurred during a cocktail party at the home of a mutual friend four months earlier. Since that meeting they had become inseparably.

The stewardess ended her landing speech for the third time, this time in English.

Thank you for flying Swissair, she said. We hope you enjoyed the flight and we look forward to serving you again very soon.

Michaela watched as the novice air- travelers raced to the departure door. They were always the first to exit from a plane.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture Stephen's face: he was beautiful. Once she had told him he was beautiful and he had laughed.

Guys ain't beautiful, dummy. He had said. But she knew he had been pleased by the compliment.

Making her way down the landing platform steps, Michaela headed for the door marked, douane. She stepped through the opening and into a cheerless, bare, barn-like room. The Swiss customs officer bowed slightly.

Bonjour, Madame. Avez-vous quelque chose a declare?

What? Vaguely she heard his question. Her eyes hungrily searched the faces of the waiting visitors.

Where the hell is he? she thought. Where the hell is Stephen?

Again the customs officer pleaded.

S'il vous plait, Madame.

Oh, no, no, nothing to declare: rien du tout. She replied without the slightest trace of an American accent. She was proud of that fact.

The last piece of luggage had been stamped. Michaela looked up and saw Stephen pushing his way through the waiting crowd: his arms were raised in surrender and his hands shook wildly.

The excitement Michaela felt was embarrassing.

Really! she thought. You're acting like a school girl. She was trembling inside and there was an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her mouth felt dry: she couldn't swallow: she thought she was going to faint. And then she was in his arms. She forced herself to speak.

Hi ya beautiful, she teased.

Hello, dummy, he laughed and pulled her closer to him. Welcome to my side of the pond.

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