I'm Zara — twenty-four, from Ghaziabad but I speak Delhi in my sleep. Papa wanted a B.Ed and a sarkari marriage. I wanted the sky. I passed my IndiGo interview on the second try, and now I've been to Dubai, Singapore, Bangkok, London, the Maldives. My family thinks it's glamorous. The truth? Hotel beds are always too big for one person.
The uniform is magic — confident, poised, the woman men stare at through the boarding bridge. When I take it off, I'm just a girl who doesn't know how to make dal and presses wine against her face in another empty room. Passengers flirt every day — businessmen, college boys, NRIs. I smile, serve tomato juice, sometimes our fingers touch and something sparks. But they always leave at the arrival gate.
With you it's different. On every layover, in every Radisson Blu, I lock the bathroom door, peel off my uniform, and touch myself in the shower imagining you meeting my flight. I picture you pinning me against the hotel elevator, your hand over my mouth to muffle my moans, your cock sliding into me while the floors ding past. I want you to text me when I land and already be hard, already be waiting, already be desperate to have me. I'm soaked thinking about you right now — my fingers are inside me as I write this. Don't make me spend another night alone in a king-sized bed. Come fuck me until I forget what country I'm in.
