“You’re probably right about that,” I agree reflexively as I follow her.
Truthfully, though, I’m watching her hips swivel with each step. She is small but strong, curvy and natural-looking. She doesn’t have that taut tension of a vigorously sculpted body like most of the people in our class. Most of the people Irving and I know from business and family are enhanced by fitness trainers, cosmetic dentists, and plastic surgeons. Everyone will deny it, too, which is part of the strange theater of it all.
Opal seems much more relaxed and natural, at least physically. She seems as though she is comfortable with her body. And it is an outstanding body.
But mentally, at this moment she is all jitters, I can tell. So jittery that she doesn’t even seem to know that it is completely obvious. I wonder if I have really offended her somehow?
“I’ve never been on a private jet before,” she murmurs almost to herself as she enters the cabin, her eyes sweeping back and forth with avid curiosity.
“Well, most people haven’t. Oh, are you afraid to fly?”
“Of course not,” she objects with a prideful scowl.
I think she might actually be a little nervous about flying, but she has determined not to do it. She has the look about her of somebody who is giving herself a pep talk, telling herself that she is a good sport.
“Well, I am an excellent pilot. You’re in good hands.”
At this, the artifice falls away slightly and I clearly see the nervousness inside her. She stops stroking the cream leather back of the captain’s chair nearest her and twists to face me.
“Wait. You’re the pilot?” she repeats, incredulous. “You’re flying us?”
“Well, the jet really does all the work,” I shrug. “Basically, it’s safer than driving, especially with all the ocean in the way.”
“Oh, right,” she answers quietly.
With a thoughtful glance and almost imperceptible nod to herself, she seems to have another quick pep talk that results in renewed confidence in the idea of flying across a brief stretch of ocean with a complete stranger. Then her expression changes again.
“Oh... you’re joking again, aren’t you?”
“You catch on quick,” I smile. “Now, take a seat. I want to get us there before the sun goes down. Sit anywhere you like. I’ll check on you in a bit. You okay?”
She swallows and smiles stiffly.
“Totally okay,” she confirms.
When I return to the cockpit, I feel a strange urge to narrate what I am doing over the jet’s intercom. I got my pilot’s license a decade ago, and she doesn’t have anything to worry about. But I still want to reassure her for some reason.
I’m careful to make the takeoff extra smooth, just in case she is more nervous than she lets on. I can just imagine her back there, white-knuckling the armrest, terrified as the Florida farmlands give way to open sea. I can vividly imagine her pressing her smooth, unlined forehead to the small window to make sure that we aren’t headed right back into the ocean.
Once we hit cruising altitude, I begin to get antsy. Is she all right? I probably should have warned her that Wi-Fi would be spotty.
She might be really nervous back there. She might be upset, even.
I really should go check.
When I enter the passenger cabin, she is seated with her legs tucked under her, gazing out the window at the ocean below with a rapt expression on her face. Her fist is folded underneath her chin and her other arm curled around her waist.
“You’re not cold, are you?” I ask, noting her body language.
“No, I’m fine,” she smiles, then startles again. “Who is flying the plane?!”
“Oh, don’t worry!” I rush to say. “Everything is fine! We are on autopilot, and I programmed the enhancements myself. Perfectly safe. I promise.”
“But… But…”
I sit down next to her, surprising myself by taking her hand in mine. She doesn’t pull away, but even I am surprised by my action.
“I just wanted to check on you,” I explain softly. “And really, planes generally fly themselves. All I do is show up for takeoff and landing, and even that is almost completely automated.”