Feisty Fern #4

Thick, black mud oozed through the laces and past the tongue of Sandra’s shoes as she chased Kyle through the fields of their aunt’s farm. Thwock, thwock, they walked though the field; each step made a sound like an opening Tupperware container. Sandra paused, watching a fly across the three o’clock summer sun. When she tied again to lift her left foot, it didn’t come. She tired to raise her right foot, and it stayed stuck in the mud.

“Kyle!” she shrieked, giggling out the high-pitched sounds. “Come help me!” He turned and began running back toward his sister, knees nearly hitting his chest as they released violently from the swamp. As he approached, Sandra’s feet slipped from her shoes and the cold mud closed over them, replacing her feet. Freezing goo slid between her toes, and Kyle fell over in a fit of laughter, dark mud coated half his platinum hair…

…the drink cart hit Sandra’s armrest as it passed first class moving toward coach. The champagne on her flip-down table was knocked over. The flight attendant offered a terse smile and continued walking.

Sandra dabbed at the golden liquid soaking into her blue jeans. She understood working in tight quarters, having been a flight attendant since the job title was stewardess. Her boss had booked her first-class out of guilt. He had not let her off a weekend of LaGuardia to Logan shuttles to be with her aunt Mary when she was sick.

Now Sandra was drinking champagne on a flight to Kansas City for Mary’s funeral.

For two days, every time she dozed off, she remembered things from a childhood of playing on aunt Mary’s farm. Getting stuck in the mud on the west forty, drinking from the silver cup that hung on the water pump handle by the barn, climbing and pretending to drive the broken down farm equipment, the sour burst of the lemon drop candies in Mary’s apron pockets, the hand-made dresses too bright to be anything but Mary originals.

“Hey, Sugartits, I’ll have a scotch and soda,” the only other person in first-class, a man sitting across from Sandra, calls to the pretty, young, first-class attendant.

The woman brushed a wisp of silky black hair from her porcelain forehead and directed her vibrant green eyes to the stock of liquor.

She set the drink in front of the man. “It’s five dollars.”

The man leaned left and pulled a bulging wallet from his back pocket. A white polo tent covered his massive torso. He looked like two scoops of vanilla ice cream, and the many golf chains around his neck reminded Sandra of caramel sauce spilling down the top scoop.

With a wadded five between pudgy fingers, the man asked, “How much more for a mile high club membership?”

“I’m sorry sir, that’s not a service we offer,” the attendant said and snatched the five from the man’s fist.

She walked back to her station, and the man’s head stuck into the aisle, blatantly examining the twenty year-old’s ass in her blue skirted uniform.

Sandra had felt those eyes on her daily for years. She wondered if she still had the looks to attract such attention.

Leaning her blond head into the aisle, she said, “Meet me in the bathroom.” A single arched eyebrow over pale blue eyes made her intentions more obvious. She slyly climbed out of her seat and strutted to the front, each shake of her ass carefully planned.

A meaty fist closed around the small plastic glass and lifted the scotch and soda to the large ma’s open mouth. He moved deliberately through the seats, barely have the necessary clearance.

Sandra stood in the corner when he entered the cramped bathroom. “Sit and I’ll sit on you,” she commanded.

He obeyed, perching on the edge of the toilet.

Sandra pushed him back and undid his pants. Once they were removed, she slid slowly up his trunkish thighs and wrapped her arms as far around him as she could. When she was sure he was stuck between the wall and the small sink, she stood and left, leaving his pants out of reach.

“You bitch,” the man snarled through the closed door. “Help me out of here!” His angry cries turned to breathy pleas for assistance.

The pretty flight attendant stood and grabbed a champagne bottle. She smiled at Sandra as she filled the cup.

Sandra returned the smile. Better to lose my shoes in the field, than pants, she thought. She raised the glass to her aunt. Mary would have been proud.