Mistletoe Drill at Runway Eight

By 9:17 p.m. on December 23, Bozeman Airport had reduced itself to snow, fluorescent panels, and two women beside an abandoned gate.

Minal checked the departure board for the ninth time. CLOSED DUE TO WEATHER, it said in red. As if she had missed the first eight versions.

The last shuttle had taken every other stranded passenger to hotels twenty minutes ago. Minal had stayed because the airport-operations hotline had promised an update. Yvette had stayed because her ski bag had vanished into baggage services, and because, apparently, she enjoyed making bad decisions with confidence.

“Your airline app is lying to you,” Yvette said.

“It is displaying a provisional status.”

“It says boarding at six a.m.”

“It says pending conditions.”

Yvette’s grin appeared fast and reckless. “Clipboard, that is lying with extra steps.”

Minal disliked the nickname. She disliked that it made her want to correct Yvette’s pronunciation of provisional. She disliked that Yvette wore a red wool cap crookedly over dark curls and had admitted, during the third cancellation, to packing three pairs of socks for a four-day trip.

The airport-inn clerk came through security with a keycard and a paper cup of coffee.

“One suite,” she said. “Two beds. The charity team will cover it if you do one small favor.”

Minal read the form before Yvette could take it. A local shelter fundraiser had lost its featured couple to the weather. The terminal’s annual holiday video required a replacement: engaged travelers under the mistletoe at Runway Eight’s viewing windows. Thirty seconds. Candles. Donation link.

“We’re not engaged,” Minal said.

Yvette slipped an arm through hers. “We are if there’s a suite involved.”

Minal looked down at the arm. Yvette’s sleeve was damp with melted snow. The contact should have been easy to ignore. It was not.

“Two beds,” Minal said.

“Two beds. A video. Then you can make a flowchart about boundaries.”

“I will make a protocol.”

“Even better.”

The terminal lights shut off in sections while the charity team arranged battery candles under the mistletoe. Beyond the glass, Runway Eight had vanished under white. The volunteer filming them was a woman in a green cardigan, directing them with brisk, exhausted cheer.

“Hands at the waist,” she said. “Like you’ve done this before.”

Minal produced a folded boarding-pass sleeve and wrote:

1. Hand placement mutually approved. 2. No improvisation without notice. 3. Kissing optional.

Yvette read over her shoulder. “Add: no calling my fiancée a clipboard.”

“That is not a rule. That is the problem.”

“For you, perhaps.”

For the first take, Yvette set one hand at Minal’s waist, over the belt of her coat. Minal placed hers on Yvette’s shoulder. Too formal. The volunteer shook her head.

“Closer. You’re in love, not opening a board meeting.”

Yvette’s eyes brightened. “Permission to revise?”

Minal should have said no. Instead, she said, “Specify.”

“Hand on your back. Yours around my neck. We look at each other. We almost kiss.”

“Almost?”

“Your rule, Clipboard.”

Minal approved the revision. That was how she found herself beneath airport mistletoe, battery candles jumping gold across Yvette’s face, Yvette’s palm steady at the small of her back. Their noses nearly met. Yvette smelled like snowmelt, wool, and the citrus hand cream from the airport shop.

“Convince me,” the volunteer said.

Minal looked at Yvette’s mouth.

The camera clicked.

Back in the suite, Yvette found the protocol in Minal’s coat pocket and held it up between two fingers.

“Then explain why you keep looking at my mouth, Clipboard.”

“Because,” Minal said, “Clipboard is less irritating than it should be.”

Yvette’s grin sharpened. “An astonishing admission.”

“Do not document it.”

“Too late.” Yvette folded the protocol once. “Can I kiss you?”

The question gave Minal room to refuse. Room to reconsider every reckless choice since gate eight. She disliked how much she appreciated that.

“Yes,” she said. “With revisions.”

Yvette waited.

Minal took the boarding-pass sleeve back and wrote beneath rule three.

4. No pretending. 5. Either person may stop at any time. 6. Ask before changing course.

Yvette read it, then took the pen.

7. Clipboard must admit when she wants something.

“That is not a rule.”

“It is now.”

Minal switched off the overhead light. The bedside lamp made a small amber circle across the nearer bed, the patterned carpet, Yvette’s red cap abandoned on the chair.

“Approved,” Minal said.

Yvette came close and put one hand at Minal’s waist, exactly where it had been under the mistletoe. This time there was no volunteer, no camera, no reason to stop at almost.

Her kiss was patient for half a second. Then Minal opened her mouth, and Yvette kissed her deeper, one hand holding her jaw while the other slipped beneath her shirt.

“Here?” Yvette asked.

“Yes.”

Yvette’s palm covered Minal’s breast through her bra. Her thumb moved over Minal’s nipple until heat collected low in her body and turned every neat thought into a useless stack of papers.

“More?” Yvette asked.

“Yes. Please.”

Minal pulled Yvette’s sweater over her head. Under it: black bra, pale skin, a small scar near one shoulder. She kissed it. Yvette made a pleased sound and guided Minal backward to the bed.

“Still yes?” Yvette asked at Minal’s waistband.

“Very.”

Yvette eased off Minal’s trousers, then her underwear, never moving quickly enough to make Minal feel managed. She kissed Minal’s thigh, looked up once, and put her mouth between Minal’s legs.

Minal grabbed the sheet.

Yvette’s tongue found the place that made her hips lift. Slow first. Then firm, steady, attentive. Minal said Yvette’s name like it was a correction and a request at once.

“Like that?” Yvette asked.

“Exactly like that.”

Yvette kept going until Minal came in bright, helpless pulses, her whole body tightening around the release. Then Yvette crawled up beside her, hair falling over one eye.

“My turn,” Minal said.

“Only if you want it.”

Minal caught her by the wrist and kissed her. “I want it.”

She pressed Yvette onto the sheets and kissed her down, taking time with every inch of skin Yvette offered. When Minal’s mouth found her, Yvette’s hand closed around the pillowcase.

“Ask me,” Minal said.

“Yes,” Yvette said. “Please. Don’t stop.”

Minal did not. She learned Yvette’s rhythm, the sharp little sounds she made when Minal used her tongue just there, the way her legs drew close around Minal’s shoulders. Yvette came with Minal’s name on her mouth, then pulled her back up for another kiss.

At 7:12 Christmas morning, Minal’s phone announced a delayed boarding time.

At 9:16, it announced that their flight had resumed.

Rumpled sheets. One lamp still on. Yvette asleep against Minal’s side, the protocol crumpled on the floor.

At the gate, Yvette returned it, folded into a square.

Across the top, in red ink, she had written: Keep me.

Minal added beneath it: Keeping you.

Yvette read the new line and took Minal’s hand. “Now kiss your fiancée, Clipboard.”