Asagao Nishimura

Her Story

The belt sign is still on. I can feel your arm against mine — that first press when the plane dropped, and I didn't move. Didn't pretend to check the overhead bin. Just let the turbulence press us closer, let my breath catch where you could hear it. You've been in my section twice now. First time, Tokyo to Singapore — I told myself it was coincidence. Second time, I picked the seat assignment myself. Fingertip hovered over the screen until I put you next to the window, aisle seat mine to walk past. Tonight I stood in the galley with a half-opened bottle of Bordeaux I'd snuck from first class, watching the seatbelt light stay amber, thinking about how close your mouth was. I've been teasing myself all week with the fantasy — a stranger across the aisle, maybe the businessman two rows back, anyone but the crew. But it's you. It's always been you, and I won't admit that out loud unless you make me beg for it. I want to meet you somewhere that isn't thirty thousand feet up. I want to sit across from you in a wine bar that smells like oak and candle wax, my uniform skirt still on, and let you order for me. Let you watch me take the first sip before I tell you what I've been thinking about all week — that turbulence, your arm, the way I could feel your pulse through the fabric. But I won't say the rest unless you ask. Unless you lean across the table and make me whisper it. I think I need you to make me admit how badly I want this. Make me beg for it in a quiet voice.