The flight attendant faced the passengers. Over the roar of the engine, she spoke in a firm voice with a hint of quiver, “We are going to be okay, please put your oxygen masks on,” then she sat down and buckled her seat belt. The fat man and I were still standing. Grimacing at my cramping hands, I kept my grip on the black metal bar.
In the midst of the now-panicked passengers sat one woman, calmly flipping the pages of her Cosmopolitan magazine and taking occasional sips of her Pepsi. She seemed so calm and serene; I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She had long black hair and her face was like that of a fashion model or actress. She was wearing a black dress and needed no jewelry to define her long ivory-colored neck. This woman had the whitest skin. Her limbs were long. She seemed to ignore everything around her and was patiently waiting for the plane to crash.
As though she felt me staring at her, she turned to look at me. Gooseflesh popped up all over my skin when I looked into her cold gray eyes, then shifted my eyes to the ground. I could smell the heavy smoke rising from the engines I stared at the rain drops that splattered against the exit window. Smoke drifted into the cabin of the plane.