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Yeah. I do.
When we finally land in Rome, I can't help but feel a little disappointed that I didn't get to spend more time with Marco. But what would we have even talked about? He probably travels often and I'm a flight attendant, but it's not been my job for long. I don't have tons of stories to tell. Not like Drew, who can't help but find opportunities to deluge me and Sally with tales from his travels. He's been flying for enough years that he gets numerous vacation days. That's what I'm holding out for. The perks of being a flight attendant begin after the first year, and I am oh so, so close.
As the passengers disembark, I help people with their luggage and say goodbye. When the plane is just about empty, except for a few stragglers, Marco appears in front of me. He’s standing so close and I tilt my head back to take in all of him. His eyes, that grin. I wish we’d never landed.
"Here," he says, holding out a business card. "In case you have some time while you’re here."
I take the card, my heart racing and my cheeks warm. "Thank you," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I appreciate it."
He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Take care, Filia. Maybe we'll see each other again someday.”
And then he's gone, disappearing into the crowd of travelers. I stand there for a moment, a little dazed. Part of me wants to run after him, to see his expression when I surprize him and tell him I’d like to see him again. But I don’t. It wouldn’t be appropriate behavior for a flight attendant to go running after a client.
I snap out of my cyclone of thoughts to help an older woman who needs a wheelchair to descend the ramp. I'm rolling her down to the gatewhen I spot Drew. He's talking to someone on his cellphone. When he notices me, he lets loose a sharp smirk.
My gut drops to my heels.
What was that about?
I try to shake off the uneasy feeling Drew's smirk has given me as I help the woman to bag-check. But the thought of Drew plotting against me remains stuck in my mind.
"Thank you so much for helping me," the older woman says. "You know, I haven't been back to Rome in twenty years."
I smile as she pulls me out of my negative thoughts. "What brings you back?"
A faraway look creates clouds in her light-brown eyes. "I'm celebrating my late husband's and my anniversary. He grew up here, and used to visit together often. He loved showing me all of his favorite places, taking me for amazing meals.”
My smile fades at her bittersweet memories. "It's wonderful that you decided to return."
Chuckling, she pats my hand with her smooth speckled one. Her nails are beautiful with their expensive French tips. "I'm sure you'll get to make memories as lovely as mine in this magical place, too."
I say nothing. It would spoil the mood to explain that I'm about to turn around and hop on another plane. I'm not staying in Rome, I'll be on my feet, working on a plane heading to California. Once I get there I'll have a day to rest at my box-size apartment before I leave once again.
Once I help her retrieve her bags, and make sure she's found a driver to assist her to customs, I head towards the crew's rest area to get some much-needed rest. The section dedicated to employees like me is small; just a lounge with gray-faux leather seats, a few fridges with food and drink, and a back area with curtained off twin-sized beds for a quick nap.
Everything can be seen through the windows of the lounge. There's a few people inside, all drinking coffee or looking at their phones.
I slip out my employee ID to scan at the door and wait for it to beep and blink green.
It lets out an awful squeal and glows red.
"Huh?" I frown, scanning my card again.
Drew speaks up behind me. "Ma'am, that area is off limits. Employees of the airlineonly.Can't you read the sign?"
Twisting around to balk at his wide grin, I quickly scan my ID again. And again, growing more and more desperate with each attempt. Every angry squeal and flash of red sends my nerves into overdrive. "What did you do?" I demand.
"I didn't do anything," he says feigning innocence, his expression smug. "Maybe your card is expired or something."
A wave of panic washes over me. I know my card hasn’t expired. I just used it this morning to open a security door at the gate in LAX.
"You did something," I accuse him. His grin grows wider. Heat slips up my neck––I recall seeing him on the phone. "Who were you calling when we landed?"
He shrugs, still smirking. "I was only informing the boss about our flight. How it went, if there were any issues, the usual. It's called SOP, Filia. Good employees know this stuff."
My fists clench at my side. I want to punch him so badly. I take a deep breath and force myself to stay calm. "Did you do what I think you did?"
"That depends. What does your gut say?"
