Free Empire of Light by Gregory Earls

Deschenel, Wally Pfister and Matthew Libatique.
    I’ve been drooling over this issue the way a ten year-old covets that tattered issue of Barely Legal he found on the way home from school. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I left the damn thing stuck under my mattress at home.
    I rummage around some more, but come up empty. Okay, this isn’t funny anymore because I really can’t find my magazine. The one thing I specifically set aside to read on the plane is not here! I sure as hell can find everything else, including that stupid list of haberdashers from Edgerton, but my precious American Cinematographer is nowhere.
    “Damn!” I whisper loudly to myself.
    What the hell else could go wrong?
    Ding!
    A flight attendant call button in the row behind me suddenly pops on, burning so bright that I could tan under it. A very dreamy and tall woman answers the call, marching down the aisle like she’s modeling a killer new dress from the House of Dior. She wears a smile so serene and classic that I’m convinced God ordered Da Vinci himself to design it before sending her soul down to Earth.
    “ Oui, Monsieur? ” she asks the old fart behind me.
    The beauty of her voice is quickly cancelled out by the bitching of the evil French couple that sit behind me. Only these two idiots could take a language as gorgeous as French and make it sound like two jackals vomiting in an echo chamber. Of course, I can’t understand a damn word of what they’re saying, but I can tell by the attendant’s glance down at me that the subject of the discussion is moi , and it’s not good.
    She finally settles the couple down and then gracefully leans across Daumer to talk to me. Daumer doesn’t even glance at her smokin’ rocket-shaped titties, mind you. Of course I can’t help but look, playing it off by pretending to read her nametag.
    “Yes…MaryAnne?”
    “Sir, would you mind moving your seat up a little?” she politely asks.
    “I have absolutely no intention of doing any such thing,” I calmly respond before telling her my side of the story. She listens intently and seems to be genuinely shocked to hear how the guy shook my seat. To my relief, even the kindly man-ape in the window seat backs up my story.
    “That’s exactly what happened. It was one of the rudest things I’ve ever seen,” he says as if he were sporting a monocle and top hat.
    “I understand,” she says, standing straight and pulling her jacket down taught. After giving the French couple a nice version of the French stink-eye, she looks down at me and speaks loudly so they can hear.
    “ Monsieur Tisse, how would you like to move to a more comfortable seat? Business Class.”
    “Business Class! Why I’d be honored. Thank you.”
    I stand and look down at the surly French bastard, making sure I left my seat fully reclined even though the damn thing is empty. I follow MaryAnne down the aisle with my messenger bag and Brownie camera in tow. We seem to walk the length of the plane until she finally turns and offers me my new seat. I look in awe at the roomy space. Without thinking, I kiss her on the cheek.
    “ Je t'aime! ”
    “ Merci, Monsieur, ” she responds shyly as she pushes me away. I stow my gear in the overhead compartment and flop down into the chair and stretch my legs out in front of me in bliss. I notice the nice man sitting next to me is sipping on some champagne.
    “Say, can I get a mug of that, too?”
    “Certainly, is there anything else I can do for you?” she asks.
    “You wouldn’t happen to have the latest issue of American Cinematographer ?” I ask jokingly.
    “Of course,” she responds without blinking. “I’ll be right back.”
    “Wait!” I try to stop her, but before I know it she disappears behind the curtain of unknown opulence of the first class cabin.
    I immediately feel guilty for sending her on such a snipe hunt. Everybody knows that commercial planes only carry the basic mags, Time , US News and maybe an issue of