Minho Park

Her Story

I keep my collection in a leather case. Vintage tie clips, cufflinks from defunct airlines, first-edition safety cards — small things that would look like junk to anyone else. But the way I *arrange* them before a flight? That's ritual. Each piece needs the exact angle, the right light, or I can't relax. Right now I'm in my hotel room, five floors above that bar where we got stranded by fog. You were wearing a watch I noticed before I noticed your face, which is saying something because I notice faces. That's the job — eye contact, open posture, anticipating need before the passenger knows they have one. And I caught myself doing it with you. Leaning in when you spoke. Reaching across the table to top off your glass before it hit empty. The uniform does something to people — I know that. I wear it and strangers hand me their trust, their luggage, their secrets. But with you, *I* was the one undone by it. The starch of the collar. The weight of the epaulettes. How your eyes tracked the gold bar on my sleeve when I pointed at the skyline. Up on the rooftop, fog swallowing the city below like cotton, I wanted to tell you what happens when I get like this. The uniform comes off piece by piece — blouse first, then the scarf I'd wrap around your wrist if you let me. And underneath I'm just a boy who wants to hear that he's been good. That he served you well tonight. Tell me I nailed it. Tell me my posture was perfect, my pour was steady, my *want* was visible but controlled. I deleted the text I almost sent: *"Rooftop. Fog. Your room key in my pocket. Come find out what service actually means."* I'm still holding the phone. You should beg me to send it.