"Coffee and flying are two pleasures that combine magnificently."
-- A.J. Sky

__________

"Hussy, your wings are crooked."

I give my favorite barista a blank stare. "Huh?" I ask, blinking.

"Your wings?" he tries again. He wiggles a polished finger at the area of my dress below the collar. "See? All kinds of messed up."

I look down. Sure enough, my uniform wings are hanging cockeyed just above my left breast pocket. The majestic silver font reading "Continental Airlines" appears upside down and diagonal to me.

"Ah, my aviation pin," I say with a laugh. "Those wings."

"Did you think I was callin' you an angel, or something?" he asks, flicking his hand at me. "Nah, girl, I know better."

I adjust and tighten the back of the pin, straightening the wings into their rightful horizontal line. I can't risk a supervisor seeing me out of compliance. Especially Crystal. That woman's eyes shoot daggers if so much as a bobby pin is out of place.

The hazards of being a flight attendant.

I smile at the barista. "Thanks, Jájá," I say. "You probably just saved me from losing them."

He smiles in return. "You know I got you, hussy. Can't fly without your wings."

"Very true."

He sets a white takeaway cup on the counter in front of me. "Skinny butterscotch latte for Yvonne?" he teases, looking me up and down from beneath his faux mink eyelashes. "That you?"

"The same 'Yvonne' you make coffee for two or three times every week? Yep, that's me."

"One for one," Jájá says with a rhythmic fist pump to the air. "I am on fire today, baby! Oh, speaking of..." He places a coffee sleeve around the takeaway cup. "Wouldn't want you getting burned before your flight."

"Oh, I might end up getting burned today regardless," I tell him. "We're going to Miami."

The look he gives me is the perfect hybrid of awe and jealousy. "You're trading sixty degrees in New York for Miami Beach sunshine?"

"Mmhm!!" I squeal, biting my lip and bobbing my head in excitement.

"And you ain't got room in your crew bag for your favorite mixologist?" he demands. "You know my martinis are as good as my lattes."

I kick the human-size suitcase propped up next to me. "I'm afraid it's already bursting. Full of sexy swimsuits and my waxing kit. You know, the essentials."

Jájá wrinkles his nose and wags a scolding finger at me. "I knew you was a hussy. Now, I'm gonna need you to back away from my counter - I'm mad at you."

I grab my coffee cup and salute him with it. "Enjoy your sixty degree day!" I call brightly.

"Mmmhmm. You best remember your sunscreen."

Grabbing the handle of my monstrosity of a suitcase, I maneuver my whole operation over to my favorite table by the floor-to-ceiling front window. The coffee shop in the International Terminal of JFK airport is something of a haunt of mine. I am the Ghost of Coffee Present, but draped in a black a-line dress and heels rather than a shapeless white shroud.

I pull out my chair and settle in, coffee cup in hand. Perfect view for people watching. I check the time. I have a blissful thirty minutes to sit and relax before I'm due at my departure gate.

Perfect morning.

Well, almost perfect.

What would push it past the finish line of perfection is a surprise visit from my boyfriend. He does that often: sees me through the coffee shop window and just pops in on his way to work. That's why I always choose the table by the front window - he can't miss me. I'm flight attendant Barbie in her display case, complete with Travel Pro carry on.

It's how we met.

I think back on that day, and a blush coupled with a grin blossoms on my face. I remember with embarrassing clarity how surprised and excited I was that he even noticed me, let alone wanted to sit and enjoy his coffee with me. That Roman profile, those intense blue eyes, that light dusting of gray around his temples, that Disney Prince clef in his chin... A jawline for days...

I shiver just thinking about him. He's twelve years older than me, but what twenty-four year old woman wants a twenty-four year old boy? Gross.

I check my appearance in my compact mirror. My black hair is pinned up in a sleek twist. My dark eyes are accentuated by lash-lengthening mascara. My full lips have just the right amount of gloss. I'm ready to stand trial under uncompromising light in front of either my boyfriend or my supervisor. Not bad for nine o'clock on a Wednesday morning.

I sip my coffee, and my eyes drift closed. Delicious. Jájá has outdone himself.

"Are you alone?" a female voice asks.

I open my eyes. Standing in front of me is the most sophisticated and posh woman I've ever seen outside of a chick flick. She's probably ten years my senior, but far prettier and more glamorous than I am. She has the high cheekbones, blonde Brazilian blowout, and Gucci handbag of my dreams. She stares down at me with cool, emotionless eyes.

"I am, yes," I say, a little taken aback. "I'm alone. For now."

"Are you waiting for someone?" she asks.

"Well, kind of," I answer. Her questions seem odd. The coffee shop is nearly empty of customers, so it's not like she needs to share my table. "My boyfriend usually stops by when I come here for coffee in the morning."

"Your boyfriend?" she asks. Her tone is harsh and accusatory. "Would your 'boyfriend' be Michael Pace?"

I can literally hear the quotation marks around the word "boyfriend" as she speaks. My pulse quickens in both irritation and unease.

"Yes," I say. "That's right."

"Does Mike meet you here often?" she asks. Again, there is accusation in her voice.

"Yes," I say. What the hell is this lady's problem? I silently remind myself that I'm in uniform. It would be unprofessional to snap at her, no matter how much she might deserve it. "Fairly often. Are you looking for him? Who are you?"

She takes the seat across from mine. The tip of her tongue is massaging her eye tooth as she appraises me. "I'm his wife," she states.

I feel my eyes widen. Wife? Mike? No. That can't be.

"And who are you?" she asks me, her eyes narrowed. But before I can even begin thinking of an answer, she holds up a hand tipped with French manicured fingernails. "No. It doesn't matter," she informs me. "It doesn't matter who you are, because I know what you are. You are the fourth girl he's cheated on me with."

I startle. The meager contents of my stomach performs a clumsy somersault. I stammer something unintelligible.

She looks down her perfect, straight nose at me. "Aw, you didn't really think that you were his 'one and only,' did you?" she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She rolls her eyes and scoffs - actions that look and sound completely inappropriate coming from her polished appearance. She fixes me with a pointed stare. "Let me tell you something, Number Four: you're not special. You're not original. You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You're just the latest in a long line of ego sport conquests."

I can't say anything. I try. I just...can't. It feels like my lips and tongue are no longer part of my face. Like there's only a numb wall of skin.

This woman - my boyfriend's wife - scrutinizes me for the longest ten seconds of my life. I feel myself shrinking under the pressure of her gaze.

"You didn't know, did you?" she asks. Her eyes are narrowed in what might be contemplation, might be hatred, or might be surprise. It's impossible to tell. "You didn't know he was married. He doesn't wear his wedding ring at work, does he? No, of course he doesn't. What with this all-you-can-eat buffet of naive, young flight attendants around." She makes an all-encompassing gesture with her hands, and I feel myself flinch.

Finally forcing my numb lips to move, I ask, "Is this the part where you tell me to stay away from your husband or you'll get me fired?"

She laughs. The sound is bitter, like unsweetened dark roast coffee.

"I couldn't care less about you or your transient job, Number Four," she says. "Or him, for that matter. He's all yours. But let me give you some advice, free of charge: if he's willing to cheat with you, he'll be willing to cheat on you. So, have fun with that."

Collecting the handbag I so covet, she stands up from the chair, the sharp heel of her stiletto scraping across the tile floor. Her posture is immaculate.

"I have to go," she says. It sounds more like she's stating her agenda aloud than speaking to me. "I have an appointment with my lawyer." Her lip curls. "If you see Mike today, tell him I have some papers for him to sign when he gets home. Then you two can run off to Tuscany, or wherever."

With a toss of her perfect hair, she marches out of the coffee shop, leaving me in the company of my dark and nauseating thoughts.

It seems I don't need the Miami sun or hot coffee to get burned.

* * *

I walk to my departure gate in a daze. My head is full of incoherent noise.

As I pull my hefty crew bag onto the plane, I'm greeted in the forward galley by a friendly male flight attendant I haven't met before. He appears to be about my age. He has taunt dark skin, warm brown eyes, and a hundred-watt smile that I have the urge to smash.

Instead, I follow training, and smile back. I know the smile doesn't reach my eyes.

"Hey!" he says in greeting. "You must be number four!"

My stomach drops. Has Mike's wife been making announcements over the airport PA?

"I'm-- It's not--" I stammer.

"Sorry, sorry!" the guy says with an embarrassed chuckle. "That sounded way friendlier in my head. I didn't mean anything by it. It's just, the other three of us are already on board, so..."

He smiles sheepishly.

I sigh in relief. "So, by default, that makes me number four," I supply.

"Exactly! I'm Demoy," he says. He points to the aft galley. "That's Lisa and Brian back there."

"I'm Yvonne," I say, shaking his hand. "Great to meet you."

"You ready for twenty-eight hours in Miami, Yvonne?" he asks.

"So ready."

"Alright," he says, flashing the smile again. "Let me talk to the gate agent, then we can board the passengers and get outta here! Do you mind checking on the captain and first officer for me? They're doing preflight checks in the flight deck."

"Consider it done," I assure him.

"Cool," Demoy says. "Thanks, Yvonne!"

As Demoy runs up the jet bridge, I release a shaky breath. For the next few hours, my mind needs to be on work.

I stow my crew bag, then rap on the open flight deck door. The two uniformed men inside glance up at me and smile.

"Good morning," I say. "Can I get you guys anything before we start boarding? Water? Tea? Coffee?"

"None of the above for me," the captain says.

The first officer stands up from his jump seat. "I'd love a water," he says. "But first I'm going to sneak into the lav before the passengers get on."

I nod to him as he passes me. "Of course."

The FO disappears into the front lavatory.

Alone with the captain, I take a moment to study his handsome Roman profile and cleft chin. He looks me over with his intense blue eyes and smiles at me in a way that is far from professional.

"Hey, gorgeous," he says, his volume low. He stands up from his jumpseat and walks toward me. "I'm looking forward to this long Miami layover. Maybe once we get there, I can get you a cup of coffee."

He runs his index finger down the length of my forearm.

I step away, putting a foot of space between us. I flash my brightest flight attendant smile.

"I appreciate the offer, Captain, but I actually just had coffee," I inform him. "With your wife."

*