We flew in to San Francisco as we've done a dozen times over these past few months. 
 
Our tiny jet is more a floating foyer than a formal jetliner and, at 40,000 feet, the rules and conventions of commercial air travel simply do not apply. 
 
"I'll bet I could get that door opened before you could kill me," she said in a voice that she would likely have described as playful. 
 
I finished my scotch, turned my seat toward hers, and unbuckled my restraint.  
 
"Ready?" I asked. 
 
I'll bet we never speak of this again.