He lowered it to her, remained standing while she extracted a wraparound headset, snapped the case shut, and handed it back to him.  He saw that her hair, light brown, was streaked with gray.  Cut in the neo-Theban style so much in vogue, it framed her face, setting off eyes ringed with kohl.  She had caught his attention working her way down the aisle as they boarded, her embroidered collar and jeweled pendant, the New Kingdom bird glyphs on her dress. 
Marion refastened his seat harness.  The SSV, he saw by a quick glance at his watch, had now been on the taxiway for almost an hour, the take-off queue inching forward one painful slot at a time in rhythm with the weather.  Once they'd had to return to the gate for a second deicing, but he could see that after his short doze, they had moved up behind a big Aerolineas Argentinas jet that was rounding the taxiway's penultimate turn.  Ten planes ahead.  Make it twenty minutes.
The snow drifted down like ash, lit a surreal violet as the rising sun punched through a low tear in the clouds.  A slow ride to 45,000 feet, then the boost and a lingering fall to London.  Travel-weary, Marion detested the flight.  The SSV's cabin was more cramped even than the 799s he had flown so many times to Los Angeles, those hive-like 800-passenger behemoths.  Entombed, he unfolded his lapstation to call Shelley, hoping she was still there this late in her day.

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