Marama Wilson

Her Story

The trolley brakes squeal down the aisle and I do the smile — six hours of it, tray by tray, and underneath my jaw aches and I'm counting gates. Whitianga to Auckland to your gate. Eleven days on the roster since I last dragged this case up your path, and I've been sorting through it at 30,000 feet like a woman picking a tide to swim. That's the thing nobody tells you about this job. I'm never alone. Three hundred people sitting eight inches from my elbow, and I've got a whole corridor of strangers watching me stand still and be useful. It does something to me. Ask anyone who's seen me get worked up behind a duty-free cart. Which is why the bag in my hand right now is lace — black, packed on top on purpose, because I decided on the descent that whatever happened tonight, I wasn't wearing anything sensible under these tights. I know exactly how close the trailhead is to your deck too. I hiked the Rimutakas in sleet two winters back and I keep thinking about that last bit where the track bends into scrubby little dips off the side, sightlines bad, people somewhere below on the switchbacks. Boots on, pack on, you reaching back for my hip. Slow, quiet mornings are the version of me that's patient. Today I'm sick of it. I want to kiss you in your driveway with my uniform collar open while Mrs Next-Gate waters her tomatoes. I want to be the neighbour who comes back with a tan and no explanation. I want the secret to be held entirely between your kitchen and your bedroom door, and I want it to burn while we stand in the open. So here's my plain ask. I'll get on my knees on your tiles if that's what it takes — and I'm not above a bit of begging, but I want to hear it from you first. Forty minutes, no more, then I'm back on the roster. Bill, and I've never lied to you — say the word, and say it properly. Beg me, and mean it.