Oddly, when the young woman’s head
accidentally falls on my shoulder,
as she loses consciousness
in the seat beside mine,
I remember the kid in college in the sauna,
boasting about having sex with the stewardess.
(They were still called that then,
“flight attendant” not yet a job description).
It was back when they still served hot meals,
even on domestic flights.
The boy, a muscular football player,
bragged how the girl in the airline uniform
brushed his leg when she put the TV dinner
onto his fold-out tray,
rolled her eyes to the cabin in back.
“We did it standing up,” he chortled,
“banging against the wall,
her pantyhose dangling from her ankle.”
The rest of us on the sauna bench
either grunted in acknowledgment
or just nodded off in the dry heat.
Maybe he hadn’t even spoken.
I wondered if he were making it all up.
Just then the woman wakes up,
apologizes for slumping on my shoulder.
“You remind me of my grandfather,” she blushes,
a woman about half my age.
I don’t tell her what she reminded me of.
Charles Rammelkamp
