Just then the call button went off, and Antje excused herself. "I'm still working here for now," she laughed as she walked down the aisle.
A young black man in a baggy suit looked Antje up and down. "You are very pretty," he observed. "Is your hair naturally blonde?"
"Yes, sir," Antje answered with a patient smile.
"Really? I'll give you a thousand euro if you prove it," the man responded. "Let me see up your skirt."
Antje sighed and tried to remain smiling. "You rang for service, sir?"
"How about a whisky?" he suggested.
"Are you old enough?" she asked. "You have to be twenty-one, according to airline regulations."
The young man looked momentarily humbled. "Okay, Fanta?"
Antje went and got his drink, smirking to herself. These Africans could be very trying, but were usually all talk.
She returned, and he was still studying her carefully, but looking hurt, then glanced at her nametag.
"Ah... Ant..."
"Antje," she said.
"Antje, you don't know who I am, do you? I'm Omar Dugunda, I play in the Bundesliga now. Ever heard of it?"
"I've heard of it, so let me give you some advice," Antje said sweetly, but with daggers in her blue eyes. "I don't know how you do things in Africa, but European women don't appreciated being treated like pieces of meat. Show some class, and maybe you can even end up with a German girlfriend."
Omar scowled at her. "Hey, you nazi bitch, do you know how much I make? I could buy and sell you!"
"Enjoy your flight," she sneered, turned on her heel and walked back to the front of the aircraft.
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