I will die soon now, I think. Very soon, the storm battering this plane will beat it down, sending it crashing to earth, and I will meet my death amidst fire, wreckage, and screams. This is the first time in ten years I've gotten on a plane, and look what happens. Now what would you call that?

     There's a word for it.

     This is a story about that word.

     This is the story of how I met my true love.

*    *    *

     One day when I was 13, I shot my mouth off to the neighborhood kids about how I could outrace the Cannonball on my bicycle, and they called me on it.

     "It takes exactly 2 minutes and 32 seconds for the train to reach the crossroads from Yankton Square," said Edmund Jorgensen, the kid we always went to for help with math problems. "There's no way you can ride your bike to the crossroads from even the top of the ridge in less time than that."

     "You're right," I agreed easily. "Heck, I probably couldn't do it in less than 2:40."

     "Then are you fuckballs?" asked John Hiatt. "How do you expect to keep from plowing right into the Cannonball?"

"Or keep it from plowing into you?" asked Sean Daly.

     "Luck," I said.

     They looked at me like I was fuckballs.

     "Look," I said. "Every day, someone winds up being the luckiest person in the world that day. It could be anyone. Anyone, anywhere. And if it can be anyone, it might as well be me, and it might as well be when I race the Cannonball."

     (You understand, this is the worst logic in the world. In my defense, I was 13 years old.)

     The race was set for the next day. Since this is not a story about racing, I'll cut right to the chase: as I came barreling down the ridge towards the crossroads, the Cannonball roaring down the tracks at me, I had time for exactly one thought -- whoa, I might not make this after all -- before sailing over the train tracks one full nanosecond ahead of the Cannonball. Well, less than that, I guess, because the Cannonball clipped the rear wheel of my bike and sent it spinning, and I slammed straight into the trunk of a large oak tree.

     I was knocked out, plain and simple, so there's really no explanation for what happened next. All I know is that as I was lying there, unconscious, I saw (don't ask me how) The Lady appear.

     She looked to be in her mid-20's, with long hair so silver-blond it was just about white, and eyes that glittered in her face like dark stones. She was covered from head to toe in a fine, shimmering white dust, which created a monochrome effect: the only part of her with any color at all was her lips, which were shockingly red, like a wound.

To this day, she remains the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

"Well, kid, we pulled it off," she smiled.

"We?" I said. "Are you..."

"You know who I am," she said. "You were right, the only chance you had of beating that train was luck."

"What happened?"

     "Well," she said proudly, "The train was a little late leaving Yankton Square because a girl forgot her purse, and they waited for her to run back and get it." She made a white linen handkerchief appear and dabbed at some blood trickling down my forehead. "Plus, the engineer's driving a little slower than usual today because his mind's on a fight he had last night with his wife. Those two things added up to a couple crucial seconds that saved your little bacon."

"You made those things happen, didn't you?" I said. "You saved me."

"He's smart," she said, tucking the handkerchief into my pocket. "I like that."

"Thanks."

     "Don't mention it. But you realize, this was a one-time deal. I can't spend the rest of your life keeping bad things from happening to you. Okay?"

"Okay," I said, and then I shot her my best Christopher Reeve grin. "But you can still help good things happen for me every now and then, right?"

     She laughed, a sound like little silver bells. "You're adorable," she said.

Then she was gone.

     And then the others were shaking me awake, and I guess you've read enough stories like this to know that when I told them about The Lady, they all thought it was a hallucination caused by the bump on my head, blah, blah, blah...

     You probably also won't be surprised to learn that when I got home I found her handkerchief in my pocket. I guess I wasn't surprised either, because I'd read enough stories myself by that age to know that that's how it goes. But I'll tell you one thing that did surprise me.

     My luck increased tenfold after that day.

     I started finding money in the street, I always walked in the door right as my favorite television show was coming on, I did better at guessing the answers on multiple choice tests, etc. The Lady had singled me out as one of her favorites, and bestowed upon me a special gift that continued, year after year. Not that I didn't have my share of sadness as I grew older, as she'd warned me...that's a part of life, after all, and the gift of luck is not a guarantee against suffering.

     Still, by the age of 23, I had a nice apartment in the heart of Los Angeles and a well-paying job (selling insurance, if you must know) that afforded me plenty of opportunities to travel, a fancy of mine in those days. I saw amazing things then -- spectacular sunsets from hotel balconies overlooking incredible views -- but with each one, I became more aware that an incredible sight means nothing if you have no one to share it with.

*    *    *

     One night, driving back from a business trip in San Francisco, my car began making funny noises, so I pulled over in a little out-of-the-way town named Otisberg. Why not spend the night? I thought. With no one to spend my income on but myself, I wasn't exactly hurting for cash. So I dropped the car off at a service station, checked into a nearby hotel, headed for the dining room, and stopped dead.

The Lady was sitting at the bar.

     She was exactly as I remembered. Still snow white from head to toe, still covered in that fine, sparkling dust. Half convinced I was hallucinating, I walked up and pressed a hand against her leg -- a hand met by solid flesh.

     "That's the problem with adorable boys," she sighed, not even looking down. "They grow up to be men."

     "You're real."

     "Of course I'm real. I thought the last thousand years would have showed you that."

     "You mean ten."

"Ten, a thousand, what's the difference?"

"You haven't changed at all, though. You're still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"And you're still a charmer."

     "Nah," I said, warming to the banter. "If I'm such a charmer, then how come in all these years I've never found a girl half as good as you?"

     She turned to me for the first time, a smile on those blood-red lips. "I just didn't want you to get attached to anyone."

     "Why, you wanted me for yourself?" I smiled.

     Her eyes suddenly flashed, and I realized I'd said the wrong thing.

     "Your lives are too brief," she said softly. "I've learned not to waste my time developing feelings for any of you."

     "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -- "

     "I didn't want you getting attached to anyone," she continued, "before now . So, do you trust me? Or not?"

     "I trust you," I said. "I'm sorry. Let me buy you a drink."

     She relented. "It better be a good drink."

     "It'll be the best," I said. "I know just what you'll like." I hailed the bartender. "Two Jamesons, on the rocks."

     The Lady smiled.

     By some strange chance, we were the only two patrons in the bar, so our drinks came right away. We clinked glasses.

"L'chaim," said she.

"To life," said I. We drank...then she abruptly stood and walked out. I was so stunned that it took me a full minute to realize she had taken my room key with her.

     And then I followed.

     I stepped into the room. She stood beside the bed, her gossamer dress shimmering. I crossed the room, feeling like I was floating, and kissed her. Those blood-red lips were just as tender as I knew they'd be, but her pale white skin was surprisingly hot to the touch...

     Afterwards, as we lay together, I smiled.

     "What's so funny?"

     "I've just got a song stuck in my head, that's all."

     "Yeah, I bet I know the one."

     "I bet you do."

     We lay drowsing for a moment. I had a million questions, but my eyes wanted to stay shut. I found myself drifting away, but I forced my lips to move. "Will I see you again?" I mumbled.

     "Only once more in your lifetime," she whispered, and laid a tender kiss beside my ear. It was soft, almost undetectable, and I knew she'd been lying about not having feelings for me. Because any man who's ever gotten a kiss like that knows exactly what it means.

     I fell asleep humming Frank Sinatra.

     Only once more in your lifetime...

     The next morning, the words loomed huge & loud in my mind. What the hell were they supposed to mean? I dressed quickly in the empty room and hurried downstairs, already knowing she was gone, but needing to look for her anyway. Why bring me here, show herself to me, only to disappear again?  

     Turning the corner into the dining room, I almost collided with a waitress. For a moment I was confused; it was like The Lady had been transformed into another woman -- someone with pink skin and chestnut dark hair.

     "Whoops!" the dark-haired girl grinned. "I should really watch where I'm going."

     "N-no, it's my fault," I stammered, realizing I was staring. "I'm sorry...have we met before?"

     "Depends. First time in town?"

     "Yes."

     "Then I'm afraid not. Otisberg, born and raised."

     "Well, it's nice to meet you." I held out my hand. "I'm Adam."

     She shook it firmly. "Tracy," she said, and I realized we were walking side-by-side, intimate, as if we'd been together for years.

Over Tracy's lunch break, I learned it was her last day of work -- she was moving to Los Angeles that weekend, to an apartment in the heart of Hollywood.

     "Wow," she said, when I told her that my own apartment was no more than two minutes down the street. "What are the odds'a that?"

     Within a year, we were married.

*    *    *

     The plane dips and weaves now, raising a chorus of gasps from my fellow passengers. The pilot's voice cracks on the intercom. He's scared, and with good reason. He's starting to realize we won't get through this alive. But that's the thing about life: no one does.

     Tracy passed on a few years ago. Our kids, all fully grown now, say I haven't gotten over her. I tell them they're right. She was the love of my life, after all. But I'm smiling, even now, because of what happened before takeoff.

     Finding myself with time to kill, I decided to get a drink at the airport bar. I never quite made it, though. You can probably guess why: as I approached the bar, I could see a pale woman, with hair so blond it was almost white, hunched over a drink. Her cheeks glistened in the light, but from my vantage point it was impossible to tell if it was the dust on her cheeks or tears. Seeing me, she raised her glass.

     L'chaim.

     I turned and made my way to the pay phones.

     It didn't take long. All those years in this racket have been good for one thing, at least: I knew exactly which policy I wanted, and exactly how to push it through.

     So yeah, I'm smiling. I'm smiling thinking about her, living on and on through all the lonely years of watching her favorites grow old and die, but caring enough about a cocky little 13-year old to take care of him anyway.

My Lady.

     And I'm smiling, thinking about what they'll say after the crash, how amazed everyone will be. "Just before he got on the plane," they'll whisper in hushed tones, "he took every cent in his bank account and bought the most expensive goddamn policy he could find, with the biggest possible provision for double indemnity. You know what that means for his family? His children will be set for life...and his children's children...can you believe that? Now what do you call that?"

What do you call that, indeed?

There's a word for it.

     Lucky, I think as the plane begins to fall, and my ears fill with the rising screams of those around me. Lucky, lucky me.