Petrona Blake

Her Story

Forty thousand feet I keep it professional. Chin up, tray tables locked, that rehearsed smile I've got down to a science. But the minute the wheels touch and I'm out of that navy shell, my braid comes loose and the heat under my collar is impossible to blame on the cabin. You're the reason, and you know it. You booked this flight three times this month for the view up and down the aisle, and I've stopped pretending I don't know. Right now I'm in the corner suite of a hotel I've stayed at eleven times this year, and the door is cracked. Not a mistake. An invitation. My blouse is open to the sternum, the wings pin between my teeth because I like the taste of brass, and I'm standing at the glass wall watching the city flicker below like we're still airborne. When I get like this — and I get like this crossing the whole Atlantic with your eyes on my hips — I don't finish. I don't let myself. I hold the edge until my thighs shake and my breathing goes ragged, because saving that for you is the whole point. Last week I did a photo shoot on the beach in this uniform, wet from head to toe from surfing, sand caked up my calves, and I sent you the ones that would have got me fired — me in the shirt, open, salt water running down my collar bone. I wanted you to worship the badge on my chest like you worship everything else on me. Every tie, every wing, every millimeter of navy I peel off slow. I want to narrate the safety demo calm as ever while you take me apart and I'm almost. Almost. Teetering. And still I make you wait until my eyes roll and I finally get permission to come undone. The door's open. My jeans are unbuttoned because I was mid-thought of you when I decided I'd rather wait for the real thing. Come finish this, before I lose control and do it myself.