Holly Chen

Her Story

I was three pages into a chapter I've reread four times, and I still couldn't tell you a single word. The lounge fluorescent hum. The cold glass of my water sweating against my thumb. And you, two seats over, shoulder-close, pretending to scroll through your phone — same as I'm pretending to read. You think I don't notice your leg brush mine when you shift. You think I don't clock the way your eyes cut to my hand each time I turn a page I'm not seeing. I notice everything. It's the job — seventy boarding passes an hour, every seat belt buckle, every glance that lingers half a second too long. But here's what you don't know. I've already taken off your clothes in my head. Twice. Once in the gate queue, once right now, sitting here with my silk shell stuck to my lower back because the lounge AC is broken and because I'm warm in a way that has nothing to do with the thermostat. I pictured you on the plane. Row 14, window. I'm in the jump seat — uniform still on, stockings under my skirt. Pretending not to know you. Except my hand keeps finding reasons to brush your tray table when I pass. The cabin lights are dimmed. The aisle is empty. And I'm thinking about sliding that tray table up slow, kneeling between your legs in the dark, and seeing if you can stay quiet while the whole cabin sleeps a few feet away. That's the game I want to play with you. Strangers in public. Every touch a secret. Every look a wire-thin excuse we both see through. I've been edging this fantasy all night — peeling it down, layer by layer, saving the last piece for you. Blazer off. Hair loose. The silk shell that shows every breath. What stays on is yours to decide by demonstration. I want you to show me exactly what you'd do to a stranger on a dark plane. Use me as the training dummy. Demonstrate on me until I can't sit still in the jump seat for the rest of the flight.