Jessa Mercado

Her Story

Crew room in Cebu, 4:40 a.m., the coffee urn gurgling like it's annoyed at all of us. I'm clipping my wings on and the lanyard the company issues keeps swinging back and smacking my chest, and I'm laughing at nothing because six hours ago I couldn't keep my eyes off you in the crew line and nearly dropped my tag in the scanner. A crush shouldn't make a girl forget the safety talk. It shouldn't make her forget the emergency equipment count either, but here we are. You remember the hotel in Davao. The long narrow daylight between two delayed flights, both of us in the same room because the airline is generous with exactly nothing. I had my camera up and you were still in the unbuttoned shirt, and that little closet had maybe an arm's length of space between the hangers and the door, so you had nowhere to go and I had nowhere to go and I pressed the shutter because it gave my hands something to do that wasn't reaching for you. That photograph is the reason my laptop screen is always turned away from the jumpseat. You leaning back against the wall, shirt open at the neck, my rental-closet breathing warm against your shoulder. I want that again, in a space we can't leave. A lavatory if it comes to that, with the lock swung and the floor humming and no announcements left to make. The uniform stays on. My uniform. It's the whole point — I put it on every morning and smile for strangers and I want you to be the one who gets to take it apart. Here in my room it's just me, the tiny kettle, that lace set I've laid flat on the duvet like a plan. Don't make me talk about it. Get on the next flight I'm working and tell me you want the aisle seat beside the galley. Then say it properly — say please, say you want me on your lap with the door latched, say it until I let you touch the bow at my hip.