The Woman in 3B - Eliza Lentzski Page 0,10

smile.

“You’re a big help,” I rolled my eyes.

There was just enough time for me to change shirts in the onboard bathroom before takeoff. Luckily our plane was newer; an automated video went through the pre-flight safety procedures so I didn’t have to stand in the aisle in my see-through shirt and show passengers how to buckle their seatbelts. Unluckily, I hadn’t packed an extra bra. I tried to soak up as much water from the padded cups with paper towels in the claustrophobic airplane bathroom, but I could already anticipate the symmetric wet spots that would eventually appear on my clean uniform shirt.

I suffered through the rest of the flight with a cold, wet bra sticking to my chest. The plane couldn’t have landed soon enough with me practically shoving the final passengers from the plane. I hustled to the closest women’s bathroom in the Philadelphia terminal and heaved a sigh of relief that there wasn’t a long line outside.

I slipped into a vacant stall and peeled off my still-damp bra. I was amazed at the amount of water the slightly padded cups had retained; it was like a modern engineering miracle. I rung out the padding as much as I could and used handfuls of rapidly disintegrating toilet paper to dry off my naked back and chest.

I put my uniform shirt back on, but my bra remained in my hands. The women’s bathroom wasn’t empty, but I didn’t have time to be embarrassed. My next flight would be leaving in two hours, and I couldn’t go the rest of the day with a wet bra. The bathroom hand dryers would have to become my bra dryer.

I exited my bathroom stall and slinked to the nearest hand dryer. The mounted machine roared to life when I held the twin cups of my bra underneath its silver spout. I shook the bra around as if the movement might precipitate the process. I tried to ignore the curious stares of passengers and airport employees as I openly used a hand dryer to blow dry my beige bra.

“Wow,” I heard a feminine voice over the noise of the blower. “You really got yourself.”

I looked away from my hurried task to see the passenger from my flight who had been the original target of my glass of water—the woman from seat 3B. She stepped out of a bathroom stall, heels clicking on the tile floor, and thoroughly washed her hands. She appraised herself in the horizontal mirror that hung above the multiple bathroom sinks as she lathered up her hands. I watched her reflection with interest, my task momentarily forgotten.

The automatic faucet turned off and she shook out her hands over the sink. There were several vacant hand dryers scattered around the public bathroom, but she walked towards the machine I’d been recently monopolizing. I instinctively stepped back to give her free use of the dryer, equal parts mesmerized and robotic. Her lips quirked up in a small smile of thanks.

I watched her olive-complexioned hands move beneath the warm air. Her fingers were long and graceful, with manicured but short nails. She wore several gold bands on various fingers. I knew from experience that women who traveled extensively for their jobs sometimes wore fake wedding bands to ward off unwanted attention. Their male counterparts often did the opposite and conveniently forgot their ring at home.

My brain desperately churned to come up with something clever to say, but I only managed to stand awkwardly close with my still-damp bra clutched in both hands.

The dryer shut off, and I became acutely aware of how quiet it was in the bathroom. I also still wasn’t wearing a bra.

“I hope the rest of your day goes better,” the woman said with a quick wave of her hand.

I stared after her exiting form.

“Thanks. You, too,” I dumbly returned.

CHAPTER THREE

On Thursdays that month I was scheduled to fly back and forth between Detroit Metro and Chicago O’Hare on a small, regional jet. Because of the short time between wheels up to wheels down, there was no official beverage service; I was only responsible for safety demonstrations and in-flight announcements. These brief back-and-forth flights created a monotonous, mindless day where you could easily lose track of what city you were in, so I was happy to be scheduled with my friend Gemma.

After finishing the safety demonstration, Gemma and I strapped into our respective jump-seats at the rear of the plane for takeoff. The landing gear was barely off the ground when