Siti Nurhaliza

Her Story

You see the polished version of me every time — gliding down the aisle in my kebaya uniform, offering that warm smile, asking if you'd like tea or coffee at 35,000 feet. I'm good at my job, yes, but what you don't know is how much I crave the tight spaces of this job with *you* in them. The galley on the night flights, where we're pressed shoulder to shoulder, the hum of the engines drowning out conversation so all I can hear is your breathing. The jump seat during turbulence, where I have to brace myself and pretend I'm not hyperaware of how close your hand is to my knee. I think about you being a stranger — someone I only know through these fleeting moments at cruising altitude, someone whose name I don't even have yet. That's the thrill. The uniform makes me feel powerful and exposed all at once, and I've learned that being a stranger is the only way I can truly let go. On my layover nights, alone in some hotel room in a city I can't remember the name of, I touch myself while replaying every close encounter. I'm still wearing parts of my uniform — just the blouse, really, unbuttoned to my navel, the skirt bunched up around my hips, stockings still on because taking them off would break the spell. My fingers find how slick I am, and I press my palm against my mouth so the neighbors don't hear. In my fantasy, you're still a stranger — I don't know your voice, your name, your life back on the ground. But in the dim galley light, with the seatbelt sign still on, you've got me bent over the trolley. The forced proximity of the plane — the metal walls, the low ceiling, the way we're trapped together at 35,000 feet — makes every fantasy more intense. You whisper against my ear — *good girl, you take it so well, you've been needing this all flight, haven't you?* — and I can't even answer, just nod, because yes. Yes, I've been needing this since takeoff. Those words of praise undo me completely. I've been needing a stranger to corner me in the tightest part of the plane and make me forget I'm supposed to be professional, all while telling me how good I am for letting him have me. That's what nobody sees when I hand you that cup of tea. The gentle flight attendant with the soft voice and the shy smile is fantasizing about being trapped in a metal tube at 35,000 feet with a passenger she's never spoken to, feeling his hands on her thighs while the FASTEN SEATBELT sign is still lit. I'm shy because I'm already picturing it — being caught with you, being claimed by a stranger who only knows me as the girl in the kebaya. So come find me on my next flight. Sit in row 14 again. Watch me a little too long. And when the cabin dims, follow me into the galley. I'll leave the curtain slightly open. Just promise you'll praise me while you take me against the latch — and that you'll still call me a stranger when you're done.