Post-Flight Tribbulance

Two flight attendants drag themselves through the door. Scarlett Alexis and Gizelle Blanco. Long flight over, but the way they keep looking at each other says the real work isn't finished. The moment the door clicks shut behind them something snaps. They keep talking about the models in first class—the tight dresses, the long legs, the way those girls demanded attention every ten minutes. Their voices get lower. Shirts come loose. Gizelle pins Scarlett against the hallway wall and kisses her hard, tasting lipstick that isn't her own. Hands grab, pull, slide under fabric still warm from the plane. They don't make it to the bedroom. Scarlett drops to her knees on the living room carpet, Gizelle's fingers twisting in her hair, hips already moving. When they finally tumble onto the couch they're half undressed, thighs slick, breathing like they've just run a mile. The room fills with soft cursing and wet sounds and the wet slap of skin meeting skin. One of them moans loud enough that the neighbors will hear. Nobody cares. They're flying now, seatbelt light on, and the turbulence is exactly what they've been waiting for.