The Woman in 3B

Chapter One

The giggling gave them away.

Even over the constant roar of the 747's turbofan engines, I could hear the mischievous laughter of two people who knew they were doing something that they shouldn't have been doing. It happened on at least one flight a month where a couple thought they were being original and unpredictable and spontaneous by squeezing into an airplane bathroom that was barely large enough for one body, let alone two.

I knocked briskly on the plastic bathroom door. The passengers were from my section of the plane, so it fell to me to get them back to their seats.

"Excuse me." My voice interrupted their clandestine actions. "You'll have to return to your seats. The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign."

"Just a minute!" I heard a panicked, feminine voice. "I'll be right out!"

"Don't worry," I drawled, unamused. "I'll wait. Right here."

Slight turbulence bumped and shook the plane, but my legs automatically tensed and I naturally shifted my weight from one foot to the other, like balancing on a boat at sea.

I heard the sounds of shuffling and frantic whispering before the bathroom door eventually unlocked and opened. A man exited, his dress shirt untucked in the front, followed by a woman in a similar state of fashion disrepair. They both ducked their heads and averted their gaze as they passed rather than acknowledge me.

"Thank you for your compliance," I stated in a too-loud voice.

My eyes followed their walk of shame down the left aisle of the wide-body plane and back to their assigned seats. It made me feel like a disapproving school teacher, or worse—a mom. But it was my job to babysit these people until we returned safely to the ground.

Once I was satisfied that the couple was securely fastened into their respective seats again, I returned to my place in the narrow galley at the front of the plane. My friends and fellow flight attendants, Kent and Gemma, were just cleaning up after our final beverage service of the flight.

"Do they really think no one will notice?" I huffed.

Kent, a small, angular man with fine blond hair and icy blue eyes frowned and wrinkled his nose. "I think that's the point—for everyone to know."

My other friend, Gemma, leaned against the beverage cart and sighed. "I don't know," she said, twisting her thick braid. "I think it's kind of romantic—not being able to keep your hands off each other; even for a two-hour flight."

"Yeah, real romantic," I scoffed. "Two hundred people listening to you have sex in a phone booth."

I couldn't be too upset with the couple, however. In fact, I was probably a little jealous.

I could understand the appeal. Once the plane reached a cruising altitude, we were all seeking some kind of release.

Takeoff was a little like foreplay—if you did it right. The engines hummed and turbines twirled. You coast, you glide, you bump along the tarmac. The wing flaps flex their reach. You pick up speed, teasing, not quite meaning it. Each little false acceleration builds the anticipation.

The plane pauses on the landing strip. It snorts and spews like a muscle-corded bull about to charge a matador. A low rumbling, the plane rolls forward, tentative at first, as if afraid of its own power. The engines grow louder. You spurt forward. Another false start.

You've been grounded for too long. The frustration grows. The engines scream to be free like a braying dog, pulling against the leash that tethers it in place, keeping it from what it most desires. The light touch on the brakes reminds you of the engines' explosive potential.