When she got out it was obvious that she was on her way to a reception of some sort: dark slacks, well-worn brown shoes and a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. In her haste to get air I think she forgot about those rolled-up sleeves.
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I’ve paid the optimism tax more than a few times in my life, the first as a youngster when I sent home via a friend and his vehicle a couple of sleeping bags, a ton of photos from flight school and some clothes. They never arrived.
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Her long, dark, thick straight hair would swing with her every step.
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When you start out flying, you have no experience and a whole lot of luck, and you hope to end up with a whole lot of experience before you run out of that luck.
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It was back in ’96 and I was nursing a beer on a slow, dark Wednesday night in the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar when she walked in and saddled up beside me.
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