"Y'all being dramatic."
"AM WE?" Reyna gestured at the cabin around us, presenting evidence in a murder trial. "You just turned a Delta flight into a fucking harem recruitment center without even trying. That woman up there?"
She pointed subtly at the trophy wife—subtle being relative, since Reyna's "subtle" was still visible from space. "She's been squeezing her thighs together for thirty minutes straight. Her husband thinks she needs to pee. She's about to ask you to follow her to the bathroom, and you fucking know it."
She was right. I did know it. The woman kept glancing back, her expression a mixture of confusion and desperate need—like someone who'd just discovered she was starving and the only food available was forbidden, expensive, and currently shirtless two rows back.
"It's the challenge," I tried to explain. "The thrill of—"
