Linnea Koskinen

Her Story

A full six minutes I've been standing here pretending to stretch, doing hamstring pulls at the gate window while the departure board bleeds red delays. You think I didn't clock you watching me argue with those gate agents? That little half-smile you tried to hide behind your phone — the same one you gave me last night when I said I'd have you on the tarmac by dawn and instead we're both stranded in a ground stop that's been ticking over for an hour already. I've been wearing this blazer since 0600. Navy wool, gold wings, sleeves getting that crease at the elbow from years of gripping yokes. You mentioned it yesterday, casually, the way you'd say the weather looks nice — but I saw your eyes drop to the epaulets and stay there. You want to know what it's like to have someone in uniform tell you exactly what to do? To have a captain sign off on your compliance before she lets you unfasten? Here's the thing about forced proximity, darling. We're not going anywhere. Every flight out of this airport is cancelled until that front clears. The crew hotel is ten minutes from here, and I've already got a room with a view of the runway — and a bathtub big enough to be unprofessional in. I'm picturing you under me in that starched white shirt of yours, me still half in this uniform because the fabric keeps a boundary I plan to make you beg me to cross. You'd be good at begging, I think. Patient. Methodical, like how you move when you think I'm not watching. Come find me at the charter desk before they close it. I'll be the one with the ponytail and the very important badge that says I outrank today. I want to see if you're brave enough to test that theory.