"Now boarding all rows for Flight 920, with service to Tokyo Narita."

I stared longingly at the neighboring gate as I waited with my crew for the pilots to arrive. Tokyo was my favorite city, with its frenetic pace, its history, food, and culture. It was much more alluring to me than my upcoming overnight in New York City, which is thirty miles from where I was born and raised. I daydreamed about being on that crew instead, and having a Suntory Whiskey-fueled karaoke session at the sleepy hotel bar outside the city. I studied the blank faces of the queued up passengers. If I were on that line, I thought, I'd be much more alive-looking. It was impossible for me to comprehend how one could have such a ho-hum countenance when a city such as Tokyo was on the other end of the journey.

My envious gaze was broken by a man walking between me and the Tokyo flight to throw out his coffee cup. He met my eyes and smiled broadly. Before my brain could muster a reaction, he disappeared. I'd attempted to smile back, but my brain hadn't returned from Japan in time to catch him. He was attractive, in his early thirties, with thick-rimmed black glasses. I wouldn't have been bowled over, but his smile had caught my attention enough to scan the crowd looking for him before I turned around to board the plane.

The flight from LAX to JFK was quick and uneventful. I was disappointed that I hadn't seen him on board, but was by no means heartbroken. I'd envisioned us engaging in a banal conversation while he waited for the lavatory; maybe comparing New York and Los Angeles, maybe about his work, or he'd ask about mine. Instead, perhaps he was aboard the Tokyo flight, well on his way over the Pacific Ocean as I now bordered the Atlantic. I stood in the front galley with the Captain and another flight attendant as the passengers deplaned and we said our goodbyes. I was once again off in a daydream as I was handed a folded over piece of music composition paper. I looked up to see the same smile I'd been hoping to reciprocate. My face turned hot as I took the note and happily shoved it in my pocket. As he exited the plane, the captain and my coworker looked at me and grinned. "So," asked Colleen, my coworker.  "Are you gonna open it or what?" I pulled it back out of my pocket, studied it for a moment, and then ducked into the corner of the galley. I hid behind the bulkhead as the rest of the passengers left and unfolded the paper.

It was not a note but a drawing. It was in pencil, very detailed and carefully shaded. His name—Adam—and phone number were written along the right edge. The drawing was of me…from the back.

I couldn't immediately react. I had so many questions! Why a drawing in the first place? We'd been in an aircraft together for nearly six hours, and he'd made no attempts to talk to me. And why did he draw my back? Was this an artistic rendering, or was it to confirm that he had noticed my butt? Was the advance romantic or merely sexual? And how hadn't I seen him the whole flight? I called Colleen over. "You have GOT to see this."

"Is that supposed to be—"

"Yup."

"Whoa. That's just weird."

"It's definitely weird, but at the same time, maybe it's kind of flattering? Eric, what's your take?" I handed the paper to the captain. He began to laugh uncontrollably. I wanted to as well, but I couldn't figure out if it was out of giddiness or amusement. Maybe both.

"I saw him working away on this the whole flight, but I didn't know that it was you!" Colleen said. "I would have warned you."

"I don't know. Maybe I'll text him. That's just impersonal enough to remain noncommittal. I don't know yet if I want to actually talk to this guy yet."

Colleen looked concerned. "Really? You're interested?"

I thought for a second. "I guess I'll find out soon enough."

As we waited outside in the chilly New York air for the hotel van to pick us up, I looked at the number on the drawing and entered the number into my phone. I made a couple edits of the message I was going to send him. I hesitated for a moment before hitting "send." The message read:

Hey, it's Amanda, the flight attendant. I'd noticed you too, in LAX. Was hoping to get a chance to talk to you. Maybe next Saturday we can get together, will be back in NYC then.

I felt foolish as I awaited a reply. One came not too long afterward, and it was a very short confirmation of our date to happen the following week. I showed more friends the masterpiece, and their reactions were as mixed as mine had been. Some adamantly advised against the date, some insistent that I go. I waffled between the two, but stayed with my decision to meet him, albeit more reluctantly as Saturday approached.

I asked him meet me at my old haunt in the Lower East side, a bar near my old apartment, to be on familiar ground. We didn't talk much during the week after the flight, and when I'd gotten a voicemail message from him that day, he sounded awkward and unconfident. I'd lost interest a bit. As my cab pulled up, I felt my first slight pangs of anxiety, and hoped he would more closely resemble the Adam of LAX than the Adam in JFK.

I walked in to find him smiling smugly at a table in the empty bar. He gave me playful grief for arriving late, as my flight had been delayed due to bad weather. We sat down. I immediately felt less anxious but more uncertain of what I'd walked into. He went to the bar and returned with a can of PBR for himself and a pint of Old Speckled Hen for me. He sat down in the booth.

"So, a flight attendant! You must be pretty busy," he asked with a smirk. I felt uneasy.

"Yes," I said, "I fly full-time, and I have a two year-old son as well, so I'm pretty busy at home, too." I was careful to watch for a reaction. He paused for a moment, and stared contemplatively at the wall.

"I'm trying to picture you pregnant right now, and it's pretty hot." I winced, and officially called it: Adam was creepy.

"Oh. Well, thanks. So. Where do you live in Brooklyn?" I gulped as much beer as possible.

He lived in Williamsburg, Brooklyn—that was, when not on tour. He was a very skilled musician who played live shows with an aging rock group from the 1970s, which were filling Indian casinos and county fairs instead of arenas now. I asked him the general "touring musician" roster of questions; he asked me the "flight attendant" ones. I was still not enjoying myself, especially as he kept trying to squeeze innuendo into the conversation. He went to the bathroom; I considered leaving. He returned with another Old Speckled Hen for me. Damn.

I stayed and tolerated the last of the date, and announced that I needed to head back to my hotel. He unfortunately told me he was catching the same train back home as I was taking back to the airport. As the J train rolled on through Brooklyn, he began bragging about his method for hiding hash in his luggage en route home from the band's European tour. He looked in my eyes hopefully, but he began to get the message. I was looking for a date that night; I was not the stewardess of his porno movies, and he had played the wrong card. His face completely changed.

"Well, I hope I get to see you again the next time you fly through New York," he said meekly as he stood up. His stop was next.

"Thanks for the beer," I said with finality. I returned his hug weakly.

The doors closed behind him. I immediately felt immense relief. I fished my earbuds from the pocket of my coat and sunk back in the seat. The train rattled on to JFK, and I tried not to fall asleep.

Amanda Pleva is a flight attendant based out of the San Francisco Bay Area.