Page 12 of The Woman in 3B
He rolled his eyes. “Makeup Tutorial in 2A.”
“Oh. Right. Uh …” I looked at the slip of paper on which I’d written down my section’s drink orders.
Apparently I was moving too slowly for Kent. He snatched the piece of paper from my hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll deliver drinks to First Class.”
I stared down at my serving tray; the glasses of water were now replaced with specific drink requests from specific seat assignments. The cranberry, splash of seltzer for the woman in 3B was in the center of the tray. First Class was technically Kent’s section, and I didn’t have any seat-specific challenges I could accomplish that flight. It didn’t make sense for me to put up a fight over wanting to bring a passenger a glass of cranberry juice.
“Okay,” I reluctantly agreed. “But take my phone. I need a picture of this so-called celebrity. It’s another square on my bingo card.”
I worked the rest of the flight with Gemma in Economy. I was mildly disappointed not to have had the opportunity to serve drinks to the woman in 3B, if only to prove to her that I wouldn’t spill her drink on me again. But at least with the photograph of the phony internet celebrity, I’d gotten another elusive bingo square completed on the trip.
We landed in Philadelphia, and after the last passenger had deboarded and we’d tidied up the plane for the next flight crew, I headed to the food court in the central terminal. Most crews were stuck together at the hip during their layovers, but I managed to separate myself from the herd so I could have some alone time and quiet my mind. Both Kent and Gemma knew my preference, so they didn’t tag along. I would see them soon enough on the next leg of our trip.
Philadelphia International Airport wasn’t a hub for my airline, but I’d flown to the airport enough to know what my food options were in each terminal. After nearly eight years on the job, I’d flown through most major airports in the continental United States. I loaded my plastic tray with leaf lettuce and other vegetables from a kiosk that specialized in overpriced salad.
I wasn’t a vegetarian and I didn’t even really like salad, but since I spent most of my mealtimes in-flight or in a terminal, it could have been fast food for every meal. The narrow airplane aisles and confined rear galleys kept me from overindulging, however. If I gained too much weight that also meant buying a new set of uniforms. It was easier and less expensive overall to stick to salad instead of fast food value meals.
I handed my debit card to the young man behind the cash register.
“You’re all set.” He shook his hand and refused to take my debit card. “There’s no charge.”
I slowly returned my debit card to my wallet. “Is it like National Free Salad Day or something?” I asked.
“No. That woman paid for the next five meals.”
“Who?”
I turned my head to see who the young man was referencing. I looked just in time to see a vaguely familiar woman standing in the busy food court—the passenger from First Class on whom I’d decided not to spill water—the striking woman from seat 3B.My brain reflexively rolled to my bingo card. One of the challenges that month was to have a passenger buy you a meal. I typically satisfied that task by loudly pretending to not be able to find my debit card while in line for coffee between flights, but this worked just as well.
“Can I get a receipt?” I requested.
A number of the challenges required documentation as proof, especially for some of the more difficult tasks.The salad shop employee already looked bored by our interaction, but he printed off the paper receipt and handed it to me.
I stood with my tray of food, scanning the food court for an empty table. The moments between receiving my food and finding someplace to sit were nerve wracking, like being a new student at a new school and trying to find a welcoming place to sit.
“Dang it,” I mumbled under my breath.
I couldn’t find an open table. Every place I looked was already occupied. I considered taking my food to the airline’s lounge and eating there, but my eyes fell to a small table in the center of the chaos. I recognized her. The woman who had unintentionally bought my meal. The woman from seat 3B.
My feet started moving in her direction before my brain could catch up. She didn’t notice my approach. Her eyes were down, focused on the screen of her phone.
“Excuse me,” I said.
She looked up from her phone at the sound of my voice.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” I asked, motioning to the vacant chair at her table for two. “There doesn’t seem to be anywhere else to sit.”
I watched her do a quick scan of the tables in the surrounding area as if to confirm the truth in my words. Finally, she grabbed her oversized leather bag off of the vacant seat across from her to make room for me.
“Thank you,” I said, tucking myself behind the small table. “I’ve never seen it this busy before.”
She hummed, but didn’t really engage or make eye contact.
“I suppose I should thank you for the meal, too,” I added.
She looked up at that. Her dark eyelashes were impossibly long; each time she shut her eyes, I marveled that she was able to open her eyes again without her eyelashes becoming entangled.
“The worker at the salad place said you paid for the next five meals?” I clarified.
