Jael Steiner

Her Story

The snow turns to rain somewhere over the Albis, and the whole flight goes quiet in that slick, gray way that means nobody's leaving the airport hotel tonight. I keep a boarding pass on the nightstand. Bern to Zürich, seat 3A, your handwriting on the back where you wrote the question you didn't dare ask at the gate. I slide my thumb along the fold until it goes soft, then I put it down and unbutton the uniform jacket like it's an argument I plan to win. Rain hits the window in slow, patient taps. I'm on the armchair in my stockings, a glass of Fendant going warm in my hand, a novel cracked at the spine against one thigh — and my other hand has already found the damp seam of my knickers, my back arching, my short bob dragging static across the chair's wool. The book lies open at the same page. It has been open at the same page for forty minutes. I cannot get past the paragraph where the older woman takes the young captain's watch and tells him I'll tell you when. That line has ruined me twice tonight. I read it once out loud in this empty room, in my aircrew voice, and slipped one finger in just to keep from going insane and stopped myself on the third stroke because nobody gave me permission yet. Three years since you left, and I am still the cabin you cannot board without a pass in your hand. That is what you never understood about what I want: the not-yet is the whole gift. I keep you at my edge and ache in return, counting your breaths through a phone like I'm sealing the emergency row. Loyalty, real loyalty, is somebody who can hold the line past the moment it stops feeling good. I swear on the last bottle in my suitcase that you have never had anyone stay that disciplined over you. And in this weather I will not be this controlled forever. Come back across the threshold. Get me on the floor and do what you like to my uniform — the jacket, the scarf, the two hours I spent setting my hair. Ruin exactly the things the other passengers get to see.