The Flight Attendant's Landing
"After thirty years in the sky, Geneva is ready to land. When a first-class passenger becomes a regular, she discovers some destinations require faith."
I've been flying for thirty years.
JFK to everywhere, serving champagne at thirty thousand feet. I'm Geneva—fifty-nine, senior attendant, counting down to retirement.
"Champagne, sir?"
The man in 2A looks up from his book. Distinguished, silver-touched, eyes that actually see me.
"Please. And your name?"
"Geneva."
"Like the city."
"Like the grandmother."
His smile makes turbulence feel calm.
He's on my flight again.
And again. The DC-JFK route, every Tuesday.
"Are you following me?" I joke.
"I'm commuting. But you make the journey worth it." He accepts his champagne. "When do you land permanently?"
"Four months."
"And then?"
"I have no idea."
His name is Marcus.
Lobbyist, divorced, flying between clients and emptiness. We fall into conversation—in the galley during drink service, brief moments between duties.
"You're wasted up here," he says one flight.
"I've built a career—"
"You've built service. What about life?"
"What life?"
The question comes out sharper than intended. We're in the galley, red-eye passengers sleeping.
"You're right. I don't know your life." He moves closer. "But I'd like to."
"I'm your flight attendant—"
"You're a woman I can't stop thinking about." His voice is soft. "When you're not on my flight, I notice."
The kiss happens over the Atlantic.
Galley curtain closed, everyone asleep. His mouth finding mine at cruising altitude.
"This is against regulations," I gasp.
"I'll risk a complaint." He pulls me closer. "I've been wanting to do that for three months."
We land together in more ways than one.
His hotel, my layover. What starts in the sky continues on the ground.
"Beautiful," he says, undressing me.
"I've been on my feet for six hours—"
"You've been on your feet for thirty years." He kneels before me. "Let me serve you for a change."
His mouth between my legs is first-class service.
Attentive, thorough, responding to every signal.
"Marcus—"
"Just relax." He looks up. "I've got you."
I let go at thirty thousand feet on the ground.
When he enters me, we're both landing.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't stop. We have until morning."
"And every morning after?"
Afterward, in the hotel bed, he holds me.
"Retire early."
"I can't—"
"You can." He pulls me closer. "Move to DC. Or I'll move to New York. Or we'll find somewhere new."
"You're asking me to change my whole life—"
"I'm asking you to have one." He kisses my forehead. "With me."
I retire a month early.
Four weeks of unused vacation, converted to freedom. Geneva lands permanently—in his arms, in his life.
"You're sure about this?" I ask.
"I've been flying to you for months." He smiles. "I'm finally home."
The wedding is in first class.
Not literally, but the ceremony has the same feel. Intimate, elevated, everything we built together.
"To the woman who made every flight worth taking," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who gave me somewhere to land," I counter.
We kiss while champagne bubbles.
Some journeys are measured in miles.
Some in moments.
And some flight attendants find that the best destination is the person who was waiting all along.
Final approach.
Cleared for landing.
Forever.