Flash fiction is a completely new genre for me. One that I haven’t quite got to grips with yet. The following story is my first ever attempt at it. As attempts go, it’s not too bad. But it’s not particularly inspiring either. The reason I decided to include it here was because at the heart of it, is a kernel of truth. Something, some of my friends might recognise and give a mental nod to. Here goes:
She was very attractive. He wasn’t. They were sat together on aft facing seats, that she complained about, loudly. He grimaced in sympathy. For the first two hours of the flight, they barely spoke. He had his laptop out, tapping away as if his life depended on it. She flicked through her copy of In Style, as though hers did too.
The flight attendant replenished their wine glasses steadily. They downed them equally steadily. The frost thawed somewhat. She smiled at something he said. He closed his laptop, and gave her his concentration instead. They both ordered the steak. She barely ate hers. He offered to finish it for her. She giggled at his appetite. He ogled at her cleavage. It was all very friendly now.
The lights were dimmed, and that was when the fun began. Their blankets covered them waist down. They leaned into one another. His hand crept over to her side. He fumbled, she sighed. They almost kissed, but didn’t. She closed her eyes and arched her back. Her sigh was loud. Too loud. The flight attendant walked past, stopped and then frowned at them.
Hands retreated. Decorum returned.
Movies were switched on. Headsets placed on ears. More wine was ordered. The flight attendant complied, somewhat reluctantly, making her forays into the cabin more regular.
Fingers got naughty again. Favours needed to be returned. This time though, they were careful. They waited for a shift change. The crew coming off their break were not quite as vigilant.
There was a lot of patting and stroking. A lot of petting and low level moaning. People around them slept or read or watched movies, oblivious to the real life romance of the couple in 8C and 8D.
There was only so much satisfaction to be gained through friction. Contact was required.
She unfolded herself out of her seat, and walked unsteadily to the toilet. He gave her five minutes before following, holding his Inflight magazine strategically in front. No one noticed, or so they thought.
They returned twenty minutes later.
He pulled out his laptop and started typing. She turned over and fell asleep.
She slept through the second service of a hot sandwich. He ate his with a strong black coffee. The flight attendant gave them a knowing look and her nose puckered slightly in disgust. He kept his head down and worked steadily, twirling his wedding band now and again, absentmindedly.
Upon landing, she struggled to retrieve her bag from the overhead locker. He pulled it out for her. Not a word was exchanged. They filed out, one behind the other. As she got to the door, the flight attendant patted her arm and held out an air sickness bag, with a pair of pink, lacy knickers peeking out.
“I believe these belong to you, madam? Welcome to the Mile High Club.”
Shame she had no one to share the honour with. Her partner in crime had long departed.