soon, not Veronica. Michael wondered whether Debbie was still on chemotherapy. Divorced with two sons in college living with their father, she knew how to fight. Debbie loved life with a passion. She battled poverty, injustice, the disease that plagued her, although she knew her life would end soon. Each day constituted a victory over the disease that steadily ate her insides. The cancer slowly spread despite all known therapies. Ahead of her lay only pain followed by death.
Michael remembered a picture on the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer earlier this year. Debbie had led a demonstration in front of the White House. The black and white photograph accentuated the black rings under Debbie's eyes, the tired look, but also the fire still burning inside... A remarkable soul... Knowing she could not escape fate, Debbie was trying to help those who could still be saved, the needy children of her world.
When Michael had called her before leaving the house, Debbie had sounded happier than usual, delighted at the prospect of seeing him soon. Somehow he hoped she would listen to his story. As a lobbyist, Debbie had many connections in Washington and could help Michael implement his plan.
There was so much to do. Where to start? Veronica always said, "Just start, then it will come to you, you'll know what to do next." Michael would do just that: start with Debbie and go from there.
As he reached the outskirts of the city, Michael felt good about himself and in no hurry. Wouldn't it be the perfect time to show off someplace? As he recognized Tiffany's from a distance, Michael remembered the girls he used to talk to and decided to pay them a visit.
He would just get into the cool dark cabaret for a short while, say hi, maybe have a drink, just one for old times' sake. It couldn't possibly hurt him now. Besides, he deserved it. Trusting his new powers to keep him out of trouble, he parked the motorcycle and walked straight into the bar.
*****
From the sky, Jennifer watched the city lights glow like a great beacon in the night. The red sign above her seat blinked.
"Veuillez attacher vos ceintures pour l'atterissage," confided a disembodied female voice through the loudspeakers.
"She said to buckle your seat belt," said Krastinios. "That was French. We are landing soon. Do you speak any French?"
"Only a little bit. I had some in school last year, but not much... I can say 'Bonjour, comment allez-vous, je m'appelle Jennifer!' But that's about it. I listened to the people behind us. I can't understand a word they said. I'm afraid this is going to be hard. Good thing my mother speaks English."
"Good thing indeed... If you’d like someone to talk to in English sometime, give me a call. I am staying at the Astoria Hotel, suite 666. Here is my card. You may call me anytime."
"Really?" Jennifer felt flattered. This handsome grown man genuinely enjoyed her conversation. She basked in the recognition, carefully placing the red and gold card in her purse.
Had it not been for the slight bump of the wheels on the ground, Jennifer would have missed the landing altogether. Since she would disembark last, Mr. K, what a cool name, gallantly offered to keep her company until she would meet her mother. The flight attendant welcomed the delightful company as much as Jennifer did.
"You may want to brush your hair," Mr. K suggested to Jennifer. "You never get a second chance to make a first impression."
"Oh, I forgot. Thank you." She fished for the hairbrush in her purse.
"Please allow me." Krastinios took the brush from her hand and very slowly, with the gentlest touch, proceeded to untangle Jennifer's long chestnut hair.
The girl enjoyed the sensual feeling. No one had ever brushed her hair so gently. Not even Veronica.
After most of the passengers had left, several employees started checking the overhead compartments for any carry-on left behind. At last, the trio stepped off the plane.
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