Flight Risk

1 - Jakarta to Hong Kong

My frustration grew like the line of muttering passengers behind me with each failed attempt. "Come on, you stubborn jerk," I huffed each word under my breath.

I could do this if I found the right angle. I stood on my tiptoes and rammed the rough material once more with the muscles I'd gained lugging dive tanks on and off the boats daily.

My muscles cooperated too well. The force made my hands slip from my carry-on bag dangling from the overhead bin. My stomach dropped as my balance faltered, and I toppled forward into the seats, landing on the passenger in seat 37 B and the hard armrest. As the plastic dug into my arm and ribs, a string of curses left my lips, prompting a few gasps and chuckling. There must have been English speakers on this Hong Kong-bound flight. My body stung, and I hoped that wouldn't leave a bruise that would appear in all of Claire's wedding photos.

My bag then ceremoniously landed on my butt, because this wasn't humiliating enough. I exhaled from my mouth, hiding my red face from the others, perched upon this unsuspecting and warm stranger who'd cushioned part of my fall. Somehow, this guy with green shorts and brown hairy legs didn't shove me off in disgust.

I muttered an apology in my best but likely botched Indonesian. My cheeks burned, and I avoided looking up at his face.

"Sorry?" he asked in a very attractive Australian accent.

I didn't have a lot of weaknesses with attraction. Daily, I worked completely unaffected with half-dressed people my coworkers either claimed they'd bang in a heartbeat or actually did. My response to romantic eye contact was usually confusion, a playful stare down, or looking away awkwardly. But something about accents tickled my wanderlusting heart ‌like nothing else did. Perhaps it was years spent fantasizing about escaping brutal Canadian winters. I'd pictured myself running a surf shop on the beach in Australia with my doting partner. But I'd found that freedom solo, so I had no excuse for this reaction.

"Ma'am, you're blocking the aisle. Can you stand?" A woman asked from behind me.

Oh god, I was still on this man's lap! He was staring at me as were countless other passengers. I stood up quickly, smacking my head on the overhead bins despite being all of 5'2".

My lap pillow man rose and steadied me. His hands were so warm against my already sweaty shoulder. I shrugged him away but stayed out of the aisle.

"Are you alright?" His voice was sweet yet velvety.

Velvety. What was he, a pair of seventies bell bottoms? What the hell was wrong with me?

Right, possible head injury! Although I wasn't seeing stars or feeling dizzy. My mouth didn't taste of blood. Sweat and a racing heart seemed to be the major symptoms.

"Physically, I'm alright. Mentally, I am plummeting toward a pile of sharp rocks."

He smiled, accentuating his chin dimples and brightening his surprisingly green eyes. We were way too close for two strangers. Why did he have to be visibly in his late twenties like me too? That always upped the stress factor. Life couldn't have given me a break and made him a sweet sixty-year-old woman with a zest for life and a fun demeanour to offset this awkward situation.

"At least you'll be psychologically prepared should we all perish on the flight," he said.

My jaw dropped slightly, and he grimaced.

"Sorry, that was unexpectedly dark." He scratched at the back of his neck. "Are you sitting in this row?"

I raised my head and nearly smacked it a second time in an attempt to check on my bag, but his hand shot up and blocked the contact. He probably thought I was a complete klutz, though he wouldn't be wrong today.