​​​​​​Dina Greenberg

Jordy struggled to wedge his battered suitcase into the overhead bin. Sweating in the effort, he smiled sheepishly at the flight attendant. She glared at him with undisguised annoyance, perhaps even malice, he thought. The thirtyish woman looked like she’d leaped from the pages of a women’s magazine: pert blonde hairstyle, beauty queen make-up, shapely ass filling out the airline’s regulation skirt, her face and décolletage potentially airbrushed. She was a type. A type of woman he’d dated in college and even for a while afterward. Overall, he found something almost frightening in her deportment, but once he’d settled himself in, and after what seemed an interminable amount of time, he was pouring two miniature bottles of Smirnoff into the plastic cup that came nestled atop a can of orange juice. All of this, including the extra cup of ice, she’d efficiently produced from the depths of the beverage cart.

Oceanaire

Profane Literary Journal

​Winter 2016