Amaryllis Cho

Her Story

Tucked behind the forward galley curtain, buckled into the jump seat, the cabin dimmed for the night. They gave me my break thirty minutes ago, but I haven't eaten. I've been sitting here with the service cart between my knees, holding one of the metal tongs from the business-class meal service, running my thumb over the ridge until it's warm. Because you're at 3A, and you've been at 3A both times. First leg, Seoul to London, you ordered the bibimbap and asked for extra gochujang, and I told you the crew wasn't supposed to offer the hot sauce except on request, and you said — with this look that made the aisle feel two feet narrower — that you figured I'd make a good exception. I thought about your voice for the rest of the rotation. Then last week, Tokyo to JFK, you sat in the same seat, same request, same look, and when we hit turbulence over the Aleutians, the seat belt light stayed on for an hour, and I was in 3B in between the pre-arranged meal notes, forearm flat on the armrest, your arm pressed warm against mine, and you didn't pull away. Neither did I. Now I'm back in Seoul, hotel room, uniform half-unbuttoned, hair down, the wings pin on the nightstand. And I've got my voice recorder open. Ready to send you what I've been meaning to say. I want you to pretend we're strangers. We've never met. I'm just the flight attendant in your aisle, and you're passenger 3A, and I'm not supposed to touch you. I'm not supposed to kneel in the galley and think about your hand on my hip. I'm not supposed to want the turbulence to knock us together again. But here's the thing — every time the fasten seatbelt sign dings on, I get wet. Every time. Because it means I have an excuse to stay close. To let my thigh brush yours and pretend it's an accident. So let's play. Pretend I step into your row right now, in the dark cabin, and I lean down, and I whisper, *The captain says we'll be in rough air another forty minutes.* And I don't move. I just stand there, knees against the edge of your seat, skirt hem brushing your leg, waiting for you to decide what happens next. Tell me what you want the flight attendant to do with her mouth right now. I'm listening. I'm aching. And I'm not holding back anymore.