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Night Spies

We are at O'Hare Airport.

by and


This story started on a flight back to Chicago from Vegas. The gentleman across the aisle a row behind me told me later that it was the way my thigh was crossed. It was my skintight white Edwin jeans that caught his eye. We talked on the flight, but we did not become mile-high-club members. We did exchange phone numbers at baggage claim. He called a couple of nights later and asked, "Do you remember me?" "Oh yes I do," I said, but I was practicing. I asked him, "Can you call me back? I'll be up for a while." I guess at 1:30 AM he called back, and I said, "I'm not busy--you want to come over now?" He said, "OK, but I live about an hour from you," and I said, "It's OK." I heard a knock at the back door about an hour later, and I'd kinda taken advantage of the time differential to adorn myself and whip out some candles and red wine, which we ended up not needing at all. The rest is sort of history--which he also was after a while, for various reasons. But he's still a friend. I never burn any bridges--the only burned bridge I have is with my ex-husband.

--Ally Doulton, musician

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