I-Rocky Plane Ride (Iraqi Plain Talking)

On the plane ride over to Missoula, Montana, Clark, a twenty-three-year-old Marine with killer dimples and flirting strategy is returning from his second tour of duty in Iraq and asks if he can sit next to me. Sure, I say. He is one charismatic dude. I am mesmerized by his infectious enthusiasm for life despite witnessing the horror of war. I ask him questions, but he would rather flirt. If anyone knows me, I am stubbornly persistent; my mother used to call me Mosca (translation, the Mosquito). So finally he surrenders and tells me amazing stories of courage and chance, including one in particular of how two bullets missed him because he was thirsty, and how he "blew the brains away" of that sharp shooter that would have killed him had he taken one more step while clearing that mine field. He tells me this story and afterwards has his usual dimpled smile which is balanced by a strong cleft chin. As he drinks his Heineken, I wonder how he can be so positive, and not have PTSD after such an experience. He notices the look in my eyes and reminds me, "I chose to be there." This breaks my shock and awe, and we joke around some more, and I even lose a bet -- I can't remember what it was -- so my "penalty" is to kiss him on the cheek. He then asks if he can kiss me after he asks, “how old are you, 25, 26?" I should have planted one on him right then and there, but I couldn't. (Shhh . . . I'm probably closer to his mom's age than his.) Because of all the turbulence, both literally and figuratively, I let him put his arm around me when he noticed I was pretty concerned about the prospect of landing on earth. I hate planes. Should have gotten a picture of him, but I got his number, so maybe he'll send me one of him in his uniform for my bloggy blog.