Nora scoffed at the modelesque stranger’s words. “What race?!” She demanded with an eye roll. “Men.” She muttered under her breath. He was truly fitting into the stereotype of a hotrod douchebag, by his comments. “If you were in front of me, you’d be the pilot,” she pointed toward the cockpit, as if he would need the clarification.<br/><br/>She took a calming breath when the cabin lights flickered back on again and the actual pilot’s voice crackled over the speaker above them. He announced that the seatbelt sign would be turning off, reminding them that there would still be more turbulence and to not get out of their seats unless they needed to.<br/><br/>Maybe it was a placebo effect, but Nora was starting to feel like her medicine was kicking in.<br/><br/>With the promise of dinner coming soon, Nora looked for a menu to scan over the options, wanting the distraction of reading something. Unfortunately, the stranger from across the way was not done talking down to her. He inquired about her pills, which made her flush at first, then she grew defensive. “They are none of your concern,” she snidely replied.<br/><br/>Much to her unpleasant surprise, he then mentioned what he thought worked better than anxiety medication - joining the mile high club. She stared at him for a moment, her face contorting in disgust. “Ugh, ew.” She shook her head, acting as if she had just observed something disgusting.<br/><br/>“Do lines like that actually work for you?” She shook her head, proving she didn’t really care about his answer. “I’d rather be stuffed in the cargo holder.” She smiled at him, a facetious sort of smile.