With anticipation, Simon boarded flight 2332, New York to Paris, and not for the first time, but for
the tenth. By now he knew the pattern, the routine that the
flight crew followed. He was as prepared as was possible for such a
mission. An hour after takeoff, at an altitude of 32,000 feet, flight
attendant Nancy Sommers asked Simon, "Something to drink, Sir?"
"Certainly, the usual."
Ms. Sommers winked, and carried on.
Two and a half hours into the flight,
over a darkened Atlantic Ocean, Simon rose from his seat on the aisle,
opened the overhead bin and removed his backpack. Ten rows from the rear
galley, Simon headed for the lavatory. As he passed through
the now empty galley, he pulled the curtain in front of the exit door, so
as to create a space for concealment. Once in the restroom, he checked the
contents of his pack, assuring himself that no damage had been done.
Looking in the mirror, straightening his tie, he could practically see his
heart pounding through his
shirt, but this was no time for second guessing decisions already made.
Two hours forty eight minutes into a flight
across an all encompassing sea, Simon cracked open the lavatory door,
and while attendants were busy serving meals, he slid behind the
previously drawn curtain. Except for the buffeting of the plane by the
currents of the wind, time seemed frozen.
She was back now, Ms. Sommers, right on schedule. It was now or never.
Before the other attendants arrived; Simon quickly
dropped to the floor, rolled under the curtain and while a startled Nancy
Sommers almost screamed, with precision packed in profound practice, Simon unzipped his pack, balanced himself on one knee, removed the roses and pleaded,
Darling, marry me?