A mid-air encounter

Bored, I skimmed through the Delta safety pamphlet and went over the overpriced food menu yet again.

“The captain has turned the seatbelt sign on. We will be arriving in twenty minutes,” boomed the flight attendant’s vaguely-accented voice. It sounded attractive, smooth, and slightly Slavic.

Every time I attempted to find something to do, I found it hard to stay focused, for my mind would drift back to that pretty flight attendant with her brown ponytail.

She must be Russian. It just sounds that way, not quite what you would hear from the movies, but definitely still Russian. Well, maybe it’s more of a Czech accent or something else like that. I suppose I don’t know all the little differences between those languages.

I  adjusted my position, moved the arm rest up and down and stared at the seat in front of me. Minutes went by.

But I just have to say something in Russian so I can infer if she’s from there or not. It would be cowardly not to. It’s obvious, though, that I will have the full intent to but not actually get a chance to say anything, or, even worse, chicken out at the last possible second. Oh, I would hate that! I can’t do that.

Not much later, doubt started to recapture the territory of my soul.

She can’t be Russian. And I’ll look like a fool, with everyone staring at me, if I say goodbye to her in Russian. Then I’ll be mad with myself for the rest of the day when I should really be enjoying it.

I decided not to say anything, but still felt disappointed somehow.

The plane touched down bumpily, brakes revving forcefully, filling up the whole cabin with soundwaves. The noise slowly diminished, and with relief, the aircraft taxied to the gate at a relaxed pace. Workers labored hurriedly to attach the boarding systems.

I was just as busy internally, though it appeared from the outside that I was doing nothing. After the ecstatic bing of the seatbelt sign turning off, I heard a familiar voice over the loudspeaker.

“Thank you for choosing Dyelta. Have a great day.”

Aha! Only a Russian would say Dyelta! I know it.

Beaming from the inside, I grabbed my suitcase and hustled up to the front of the aircraft where all the employees stood. I fatefully locked eyes with the young woman, the cause of all my torment and excitement.

“Thank you,” she said, by rote. It was now or never.

“Dasvidaniya!” I stammered.

“Dasvidaniya,” she replied, smiling.


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