waiting for Ivan (no explanation needed)

Evening. She and I are sitting in the leather seats, staring out through the windscreen, waiting for Ivan to finish making the rounds. The sky is like a Renaissance painting: pale blue sky and fluffy clouds, tinted orange and pink and purple by the softly setting sun. The windows are cracked to let in a little of the sweet cool breeze. "Do you really know what all of these do?" she says, indicating the control panel with a sweep of her hand. "Yep," I say, in a howdy ma'am sort of voice. "Every single one of them." "All of them?" "Well, except for that little red one, there. I've got absolutely no clue what that one does." "Really?" "Nah. That's the eject button. One little push and you'll get a free a flying lesson, sans airplane." I'm being silly and I know it. But perhaps that's for the best. If the two us are going to have any future together, she needs to understand how goofy I am at my core. I believe in honesty in a relationship. "Hey," I say, feeling like I ought to be thorough, "did you see the one in Reader's Digest a while back about the new ice cream parlor slash beauty salon they opened?" "No, I didn't see that." "They decided to call it 'Custard's Lash Stand.' " Ouch. That was probably overdoing it. Silence falls again. I'm cringing inside. This is the first conversation we've had that I haven't blown. Please, whoever's in charge, let me get it all right this time. I want us to work out. Flowers, wedding bells, little chubby kids, evening walks, and all that jazz. The door of the hangar bangs open. We watch as Ivan heaves his ponderous, vodka-nourished bulk around the perimeter. He's as lithe as a sleepy cat. I look at her. She's sitting on her hands. One shoe rests on top of the other on the floor of the plane. Her wool hat is cocked at a rebellious angle on her wavy, shoulder-length hair, and her oceanic eyes reflect the glory of the sunset. She's leaning forward a little, her lips half-pursed reflectively. Her expression is unreadable. What is she thinking? Hmmm, this joker is kind of interesting or I wish I was a million miles from here right now? Time to do something manly. I reach into my coat pocket and bring out my prized denim-coated hip flask. I unscrew the top as noisily as possible, so she won't have any doubt. Before I imbibe, I pause, give her a pointed look, and hold out the flask, its contents swishing audibly. "Want a swig?" "What is it?" she asks, giving the flask a dubious look. "Bourbon." "Sure," she says, almost cheerfully. She takes the flask and knocks back a gulp. My heart begins to pound. HOLY CRAP. She took a drink. She likes bourbon. Man, this girl is incredible. And underneath that lies another, inarticulate thought, which breaks through the subconscious wall for just an instant: I want her. She hands the flask back. I take it, have a sip (my hands shaking a little), and both of us resume gazing at the western sky above the hangar. "Why'd you start doing this?" Her question catches me off-guard. "What, drinking bourbon?" "No, flying. For a living." "Well..." I ponder for a moment. I've been asked this question many a time, and have given the explanation even more frequently. But I'm suddenly stumped. How do you tell someone special something that's so important? How do you bare your soul in front of somebody you're secretly afraid to lose? What might happen if you do? What will she think? I have to be careful. I don't want to lie, I want to be honest. I don't want to brag, I want to be modest. I don't want to talk her ear off; I should give it to her plain and simple. "I guess I just wanted to have fun," I say. "I never wanted to work behind a desk, I knew that much. I figured I'd love flying, and I thought if I could get paid to do it, then..." She looks at me, her expression still unreadable. The right side of her face is lit with a pale glow by the dying light. She's waiting for me to finish. "I guess that's the only way I know to make a living. Doing what I love. Beats the alternative." Her gaze lingers on me a moment longer, during which my heartbeat kicks up another notch. Did I say the wrong thing? What did she think? Am I being appraised? Better hedge my bets. "It's certainly worked out so far," I add. "I mean, here I am, sitting in my favorite airplane, watching one of the most beautiful sunsets I've ever seen, with a very, very beautiful girl here by my side..." "...waiting for a fat, alcoholic Russian to climb in so we can give him a lift back to town," she adds, with that mischievous tick of her eyebrows I've come to love so much. With a comically grumpy expression, I cock a finger at the little red button. She smiles, then I smile. There's no explanation needed.