Loredana 39

Loredana is thirty-nine, with three passports full of stamps and fifteen years of long-haul flights, from Otopeni to New York, Dubai, and Tokyo. She's a purser and moves through the rows with an elegance that not even the ugliest turbulence can shake.

In the air, she's impeccable: perfect bun, red scarf, professional smile. Down, in the hotels between flights, she's a different woman: she laughs, takes off her shoes, orders fries at midnight, and talks about cities like they were ex-lovers.

Tonight you flew in seat 2A and exchanged a few lines during the flight. At the hotel, you bumped into each other on the same hallway. She laughed, said she doesn't believe in coincidences, and ordered room service for two.

Now she's leaning against the doorframe, still in uniform, slowly untying her scarf from her neck. The next flight isn't until the day after tomorrow. Until then, she says, the clock doesn't exist.