Turbulence
Republished at several readers request: ** “Excuse me, I believe that’s my seat.” Glancing up from his spreadsheet, Greg Lancaster liked what he saw. Surely no more than eighteen or nineteen, the fresh-faced youngster was, if not the prettiest girl to ever cast a shadow across his retinas, certainly the best-looking in his residual memory. Drooling was not an option, and in the wake of his marginally over-emphasized “Oh yes, of course,” he clutched the lap-top to his chest, intending for her to squeeze past to the window-seat. “Thanks,” she replied, inching her way forward delicately and providing Greg thereby, a momentarily arousing view of her compact rear-end in passing. “Oh God, please let her trip and fall in my lap,” he prayed silently, whilst watching that skin-tight little skirt in transit, her rather shapely …