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

frowned.

Gemma had a singular talent for making me feel guilty, even if I hadn’t done anything wrong. She was a rule follower, unbending and disapproving. I couldn’t understand why she’d become a flight attendant; she acted more like a Sunday School teacher.

“What are they having you do this month?” Gemma asked. She didn’t drop her defensive posture, but the judgmental look on her round face softened.

For someone so concerned about rules and regulations, I thought Gemma secretly loved it when I first got my bingo card. She was less excited, however, when I actually began to complete the tasks.

“Some of the usual,” I noted. “Bump into a passenger when there’s no turbulence. Use a fake accent all flight. Wear a life preserver until someone says something.” I wrinkled my nose as I read the next task. “Assist a puking passenger is the center square again.”

“Stop withholding,” Kent censured. “What are the naughty challenges?”

I scanned over the twenty-five bingo squares and their twenty-five unique tasks. I read aloud the red colored squares that typically indicated a more challenging task: “Get a passenger’s phone number. Get a passenger to buy you a meal.” I stopped when my eyes fell on the next red square.

Gemma read aloud the square on which I’d paused: “Join the Mile High Club?!”

“At least it’s not seat specific,” I weakly remarked, despite how my stomach churned.

“Whoever comes up with these challenges has gone way too far this time,” Gemma huffed. She hugged herself and continued to look upset. “It’s basically prostitution.”

“It’s just a game,” I tried to reason with my friend. “I’d never do something I wasn’t comfortable with. I’ll just aim for completing one row so I make my money back. Then I’ll hope for a better card next month.”

“It’s totally sexist,” Kent piled on.

“Oh really? How so?” I posed. Kent’s complaint was a new one. I was intrigued to hear his argument.

“The challenges are much easier for women to achieve,” he argued. “How would a male flight attendant ever accomplish the Mile High Club task?”

“You mean how would a straight male flight attendant do that,” I chuckled. “You get so much ass, Kent, don’t even deny it. I should be the one complaining about bias. As a lesbian, I’m at a complete disadvantage.”

“If you’d stop being so damn picky,” Kent proclaimed, “you’d probably have the whole thing won by now. Lower your standards, honey,” he advised. “People do it all the time for less.”

I shook my head. “I’m not going to whore myself out to win at bingo.”

“You’re not winning bingo; you’re winning money,” he pointed out. “Cold. Hard. Cash.”

Gemma interrupted our juvenile bickering before it could escalate. Conflict made her itch: “You guys want to do something tonight?”

“Can’t,” Kent clipped. “I’m having spaghetti.” He wiggled the fingers on his right hand in parting. “See you grandmas tomorrow.”

Kent sashayed out of the flight crew lounge, leaving Gemma and me on our own.

“Kent sure eats a lot of pasta,” Gemma observed with a wistful sigh. “I wish I could have carbs.”

Gemma was perpetually on the quest to lose five pounds. I thought her curves were sexy, but I could appreciate her concern. In our profession, every little extra bit on your body added to the overall claustrophobia of the galley.

I cocked an eyebrow at my friend and laughed. “You know that’s not what he’s talking about, right?”

“Huh?”

“He’s probably hanging out with one of his married pilot friends. Spaghetti is code,” I supplied. “Straight until they get wet. Straight until they get a few drinks in them.”

“Oh. Oh,” Gemma blinked rapidly as the realization set in. “That makes so much more sense.”

I couldn’t understand Kent’s near-obsession with sleeping with married pilots. For one, they were married. How could your conscience ever forgive that kind of behavior? For the other, pilots were notoriously cocky. Confidence was attractive, but most of the pilots I’d met over the years were ego-maniacs.

How many pilots does it take to change a light bulb?

Just one. He holds the bulb and the world revolves around him.

“What are you doing tonight?” Gemma asked. “Are you having ‘pasta,’ too?” She highlighted the euphemism with air quotes.

I snorted at the suggestion. “Not likely. The only pasta I’m eating these days comes out of a little blue box.”

+ + +

“Honey, I’m home!”

I shut my apartment door with my foot since my hands were busy with grocery bags. I only went shopping once a month, mostly for non-perishables and a gallon of milk whose expiration date I considered as a