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Why does a Boeing 777 wing quiver during take-off only
to level out smooth in mid-careen over the Pacific? Nervous
to do what it’s meant to do yet again, perhaps. I fly home
every few weeks like I’m supposed to. A morning bump

to first class, I lean back, melt into the seat of my private
suite, and feel the thrust of the engines as they do exactly
what they are meant to do. Small joy is a pre-flight Mimosa
in a glass flute, bubbling like an urge. When today’s aircraft

reaches cruising altitude and levels out, I allow myself
the ancient unraveling of physical attraction. Relaxed, I stare
at the pictures my lover texted—the one I requested after
reaching my gate, breathless at LAX. His favorite shot from

years ago (and just look at that smug expression). Is he so
pleased with himself, this virtuoso at plucking my heart, sole
proprietor of the Book of Me? The other from his office high
above a distant city, where softer skies unwrap, and

crumpled years no longer matter. Thirty thousand feet now.
My back against the lavatory latch, knees bent. With a quiver
in each thigh, fingers lower and do what I need them to do.
I reach altitude. My spine a river arching. Nipples like jewels

beneath my blouse, lustrous. Lavender. Purple. Indigo. I let
go a half-lidded, loose-haired, tongue-lipped release: Lust
unfastened! Something there is more than joy for a woman.
I find pleasure, the lift of air, the engine’s satisfied hum.