I held the oxygen mask in my right hand and ran my thumb and forefinger along its elastic band. The band was brittle from years of neglect. My death would be quick.
And hopefully painless.
I thought about praying. I thought about reflecting on my life—the good, the bad, the regrets.
…the women.
I sat. Stoically. Quietly. Calmly.
The bottom had fallen out. The plane was careening towards my death. I peeked out of the window and saw a trail of thick black smoke chasing me. People began screaming. The plane was careening towards their deaths as well. Guttural moans. Horror.Panic took over the entire cabin.
But, yet, I sat. Stoically. Quietly. Calmly.
I am unafraid to die.
I thought about the night before. Her scent remained. I could taste her. I thought of her body; she was a goddess. I prayed at her alter. I baptized myself in her being. We were Gods. We were powerful. And now? Mortal. Imminently mortal. I am dying. I will die.
…in moments.
A young mother held her baby. An older couple held onto each other. I continued to run my thumb and forefinger along the brittle elastic band of my oxygen mask. I waited for death.
Black.
And then I woke up in a hospital bed. I rubbed my eyes. My body ached.
“What’s today?”
“You’re a very lucky man, Mr…?”
“Altuve.”
“Mr. Altuve.”
My nurse was beautiful. She was cut right out of a magazine. She was wearing a short skirt and a blouse that showcased her large supple breasts.
“I’m going to take really good care of you, Mr. Altuve.”
(If you enjoyed this, please preorder Fifty Shades of Altuve at your local Barnes & Noble retailer. Out this Valentine’s Day.)
