ABSTRACT
It wasn't until she was actually out on the plane's wing that he could see she was nervous about something. He sat in the back cockpit with the airplane in position, holding the wing up under her weight, gesturing her on out toward the wingtip, almost angrily. As she edged slowly on, she kept dropping off pieces of clothing which the wind snatched away like they were butterfly spawn against the choraldrop of the dawn's biding white wings. He saw her looking at him with that blind and completely irrational expression of protest and wild denial on her face, her mouth open like she was about to vomit.
