“I thought I heard you,” she said, walking out of the bathroom.

“You’re back early,” I replied.

“I know. Our last plane never arrived. A blizzard somehow grounded everything in Atlanta. I hopped a commuter from Newark to Detroit to here.”

My girlfriend, Jill, worked as a reserve flight attendant out of O’Hare, which meant she had to be ready at any moment if there was an emergency or a regular got the flu. But considering my unconventional care hours, our schedules were complementary.

“Want to join me in the shower?” she asked.

“I have a better idea,” I said. “Let’s get nasty in the rear of the aircraft.”

“I’m tired.”

“But you’re still in the uniform. Give me the spiel,” I coaxed.

“It’s amazing to see you again.”

“Just humor me.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard this Boeing 737 jet with nonstop service to Chicago. Please take a moment to find the exits closest to you, keeping in mind the nearest exit might be behind you.” She even threw in the hand gestures.

“We’re expecting a bit of a bumpy ride, so keep your seat belt fastened at all times, even when the seat belt sign is not illuminated.” Undoing all the buttons on her navy coat, she pulled it off with one swoop, exposing the freckles that topographically traced the slopes of her shoulders.

“Now, before we depart, your tray table should be locked and your seat in its full, upright position. Thank you for your attention, and enjoy the flight.” I tugged the stewardess skirt above her hips and bent her over the sofa. Her hair was in a bun, and I unbunned the ensemble while joining the mile-high club here on earth.

Afterward, the two of us lying clean together in bed, I traced a circle with my nose against her damp scalp. Beneath her floral shampoo, I swore I could detect it: the tinny scent of recycled air. It gave me a thrill, almost arousal, from pondering whether she noticed something similar in me, that elephant odor of aged skin. Accustomed to spending such long intervals in enclosed spaces, we both tended to forget how the essence of work lingered with us.

It was a couple weeks before I shared another graveyard shift with Wally Perkins, but when I did, he had news. From a gym bag filled with rank tighty-whities and moldy socks, he dug out a clunker tape deck and a bunch of cassettes.

“There’s more of them,” he said. “They’ve got a posse. A creepy, cradle-robbing posse of geezers who like to talk about finger-fucking teenage pussy.”

“You’ve been recording this nonsense? You should look into therapy.”

“Listen to this one call.”

A woman moaning at the peak of pleasure accompanied by ragged breathing scratched through the speakers. Wally rewound and fast-forwarded until he found the right spot.

MAN: Let’s pretend I’m a gentleman in my golden years currently killing time in an assisted-living facility, and you are my nurse.

OPERATOR: Assisted living? You mean like an old folks’ home?