Standing there at the aircraft door, I realized how mistaken I was.
Selene tried to take control.
“Excuse me,” she said sharply to Naomi, “can we get champagne once we’re seated?”
Naomi met her eyes calmly.
“Of course, ma’am. After takeoff.”
Ma’am.
That word hit harder than any slap.
I fumbled through finding our seats, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped my boarding pass twice before finally locating row three.
Selene settled in beside me, oblivious to exactly how thoroughly our entire situation had just changed.
“She seems nice,” Selene said casually, adjusting her seatbelt. “Very professional.”
I couldn’t respond.
I stared straight ahead, understanding that Naomi would be walking this exact aisle throughout the entire eight-hour flight, serving drinks, checking seatbelts, maintaining that same devastating composure while sitting mere feet away from the wreckage of everything she’d apparently just discovered.
Naomi approached our row roughly twenty minutes after takeoff, a drink cart rolling smoothly ahead of her, her expression revealing absolutely nothing beyond polished, practiced hospitality.
I watched her progress down the aisle with a kind of dread I’d never once experienced before, each row she served bringing her steadily closer to ours, my heart pounding so loudly I felt certain Selene must be able to hear it despite her own cheerful, oblivious chatter about the flight’s amenities. I considered, briefly, feigning sleep to avoid the interaction entirely, though I understood immediately how transparently cowardly that particular avoidance would actually be.
“Would you care for something to drink?” she asked, addressing us both with identical, professional warmth.
