"What's your name?" he asked.
"I never give my name with my clothes on," she said. Dale Armbruster looked to the doorway. If he ran out now, ran right out of the lounge, he could make it home safely and stay faithful to his wife and her vengeful lawyer. Of course, if he ran now, he would never forgive himself. He would always remember what he passed by.
"I'd like to hear your name," he said with a choking voice.
"I'd like to give it," she said.
"You really think I'm distinguished and not old?" She nodded.
"And I want to hear your name more than anything else in the world. More than I want to wake up tomorrow." Dale Armbruster heard her name in a small motel room he rented for the night. He saw the perfection of an eighteen-year-old body with breasts like fruit and smoothskinned thighs, and that incredibly willing smile framed by the strawberry-blond hair he had always dreamed of. She said her name was Joan.
"What a great set of names," he said, staring directly between her shoulders.
Like all dreams, the reality was not quite as grand. But even seventh place was better than anything Colonel Armbruster had ever enjoyed in his life. Within a half-hour he knew that he never wanted Joan out of his life, knew that he would do almost anything to keep her near him.
But miraculously, she didn't want anything extraordinary.
"I've always dreamed of a man like you. I've dreamed of a man like you treating me special, Dale."
"You are special, Joan," he said.
"I'd like to think so," she said. "I'd like to think you think of me at special times. Not just here in bed. Not just for my body."
"Not just your body," he lied. "You."
"No, really?" she said.
"Really," Colonel Armbruster said, feeling like a famine victim let loose in the fruit stalls of a gourmet store.
"Then would you read a love note I wrote at a very special time?"
"Certainly," he said. "Absolutely."
The girl called Joan left the bed momentarily with Armbruster reaching out after her.
"I'll be back, silly," she said. She reached under her skirt, which lay in a pile on the motel-room chair, and took cut a pink letter, holding it by one end. She also had a Ziploc plastic bag.
"What's that? What's the bag for?"
"Well, Dale, I want you to read it where you work. And it's scented with perfume, perfume I rubbed all over my body, Dale, perfume that was on me in very tender places. That letter was in those places too, Dale."
"If we just met tonight, where did you get time to write a letter?"
"It wasn't to you by name. It was to the man who fulfilled my dreams. It tells that in the letter."
"Your dream too?" said Armbruster. He couldn't believe it. "You're my dream."
"You see. I knew that," said the girl called Joan. "I knew I would be someone's dream. It's all in the letter. But you've got to read it where you work."
"Why where I work? Where I work isn't that romantic."
"That's just it. I want to be more than just a single night in a motel room. I want to see you again. I want us to have something. I want you to think about me, think about me not just here but other times."
"Sure I will," said Colonel Armbruster, reaching out for the luscious young woman.
But she backed away.
"I don't know if I can believe you. You'll see in the letter what I want. I don't want to take away your marriage. I don't want your money. I want you. I've had a dream, and if you are not part of that dream, I don't want you. It's that simple."
Colonel Armbruster watched her cover up that luscious body with clothes; watched the cantaloupe-shaped bosom disappear into a bra, leaving only the outlines of what he still wanted to hold; he watched the skirt go up over the smooth young thighs.
"I will know if you read the letter anywhere else. I will know," she said. "I will know if you even open it anywhere else. And then you'll never see me again."
"How will you know? There's no way you can know," said Armbruster.
"I'll know," she said, leaning forward as though to kiss him, but dropping the plastic bag that contained the envelope onto the bed instead. She retreated quickly, taking her body with her.
"Good-bye," she said.
"You don't even know where I work," he said, laughing.
"I don't have to," she said. "It's not part of my dream."
It was enough logic for Armbruster to think about. If she were part of his dream, then why couldn't he be part of hers?
But how would she know where he opened the letter? He didn't want to bring the letter home because his wife might find it. And he certainly didn't want to read a perfumy letter in the cockpit of Air Force One. The President's pilot had to be above reproach.
Ambruster tried to think of the one place his wife would not spot the incriminating little plastic bag. At home there was none. Instead he chose his special locker at Andrews Air Force Base, home of Air Force One, the President's plane. Armbruster, the President's favorite pilot, was not scheduled to fly for a week, but he moved himself up in the rotation just to get a chance at being alone in the cockpit with the letter. He still didn't know how Joan would know where he read the letter, but everything had been so gloriously perfect with his dream that he decided not to take even that small chance.
The mission of the day was Cheyenne, Wyoming. The letter was safely sealed in the plastic bag inside his jacket. Flying the plane that was called Air Force One when the President was aboard was easier than any other flight duty a pilot could have, even easier than commercial air. In commercial air, pilots always had to look out for other aircraft. But for this special jet, there was no real alertness required in that respect. An air corridor was cleared for miles around. And if any planes even got close to that corridor, Air Force jets would intercept and turn them away.
Once they were outside the Washington air space, the copilot and engineer took off their jackets and enjoyed a cup of coffee.
"Dale, can I take your jacket?" asked the flight engineer.
"No, I think I'll wear it," said Armbruster. He wondered if it mattered to the luscious Joan whether he read it anywhere at work or whether it had to be read from behind the controls. He could go into the lavatory and read it there. But he felt there was something so mystical about this chance meeting that the lavatory would not do it justice. Besides, he wanted to be able to tell her the next time they met that he was in the cockpit at the controls when he saw her words. He would describe everything to her.
Colonel Armbruster waited until they were over Ohio before he sent the copilot back to the main cabin to speak to another member of the crew, and then gave the engineer a task that would keep him intent at his charts for ten minutes.
He put the controls on automatic pilot and settled back in the seat to read his letter. The bag opened easily but the letter had some oily substance on it. He wondered how heavy the perfume on that wonderful body had been. He opened the envelope and then saw a blank page. He didn't know why it was blank. He didn't quite know why it was in his hand. He put it down.
The sky was incredibly blue up here. Not a cloud, like the purest blue glass. There were lots of dials in front of him. Pretty dials. He turned around. No one was looking at him. He saw a red switch. He wondered what it would do. Would it make the plane bounce and hop? Would it do fun things? Could he change the color of the sky? Would anyone spank him?
These questions passed through what was left of the mind of Colonel Dale Armbruster as he flicked the red switch. Then he pushed the wheel in front of him. The plane went down. He pulled back the wheel. The plane went up. He turned the wheel. The plane pitched and banked.
Whee, thought Colonel Armbruster. "Turbulence, Dale?" asked the engineer.