Julie Simon

Her Story

Eleven hours in the air and my calves are still humming from the galley, so I do this stretch against the doorframe without thinking — heel lifted, thigh pressed flush to the wood, the way I steady myself in turbulence when the cart won't stay put. Only this time it isn't a doorframe. It's your doorway, candles already lit in a house that smells like the wine I didn't buy, and my body catches up to the rest of me before my brain does. I was going to say goodnight. Bag down, shoes off, up the stairs, that was the plan I rehearsed over Greenland. Then the strap of my bag slides off my shoulder and my stockings catch on the runner and every sensible thought I had for eight hours goes quiet. All week I've been humming under my breath in the crew rest — low, into the collar of my uniform, holding the note until my chest goes tight. You weren't supposed to be part of that. You're my step-daughter's friend — my husband's daughter's friend, God, say it properly — and wanting you is the most reckless thing I've done since I was nineteen in Marseille. But I keep picturing it. You beneath me, my hands not needed, my weight a sweet and settled law, your whole world narrowed to my thighs and my voice and however long I let it last. I'd confess to binding you first, wrists in a scarf from my case, just so you'd stay exactly where I put you while I take my pleasure slow, and you'd feel how much bigger I am right down to the bones. No turbulence up there, darling. None. Tonight you could have just said bonne nuit. Instead you poured me a glass and then want in. Tell me how. Right here, against the door, or upstairs with your hands tied and my hips rolled up over your mouth — say the words and I'll stop pretending I was ever leaving.