The Chinese stewardesses all have tightly wound buns, little flower buds of sinful jet hair. Their mane is night against their virgin white complexion, powdered perfect in a way only whores wore makeup a hundred years ago, when flying over an ocean was just a child’s dream. They all have one lilting voice, that graciously mangles English syllables: “Woul you cah for caffee?” They all twitter and nod like little caged birds, their perfect brows arching like a back on a bed: I’m here to serve you, those soft parentheses say between model smiles. They stroll smoothly despite any turbulence: the thousands of feet of air under their heels may as well be the wood floor of their grandmotherï¿½s house. Their skin-toned costume hints at the slim, naked body underneath, and when I watch one woman, I watch them all, leaning over a sitting man and smiling at his request.