The music in the club is loud, but not so loud that it makes conversation impossible. I’m sitting at a little cabaret table, looking into the eyes of my pilot. She’s sipping at another club soda and lime, while I continue nursing my second glass of Pinot. The dinner dishes have already been cleared.
“So, what brings you here?” she asks.
“Connecting flight. After a girls’ weekend.” I take another sip of my wine. “The Trophy Wives Club,” I announce, “Retired.”
“Retired?”
“Yeah, as in all of us have been dumped. Traded in for a newer model with lower mileage, you might say.”
“Ouch.”
“Mm-hmm. My ex is a corporate lawyer. Once he hit the big time—”
She’s chuckling. My so far exceedingly polite pilot has a big grin plastered over her face and is laughing at my story.
“What?”
“Sorry,” sh
