—You don’t want that. I don’t either. Melissa says, stepping toward Zep until her breasts and belly press lightly against his body. Zep attempts to back away but his back is already two inches from the curved back wall of the wait station. The two inches he gets, Melissa quickly recoups.

—Whatever this is between us, Melissa says motioning between their sternums —it goes no further, got it?

—Yeah.

—Yeah?

—Yeah…I got it.

Melissa nods, backing away. —Good. I’m the left wing gunner, I have section one, and I don’t want trauma to bring us even closer. Great Scott’s in section three. If you get rattled, lean on him. He’s one of our veterans.

—OK, thanks.

—How’d you come by that name? Melissa asks, staring at Zep’s clavicles.

—My parents named me Led Zeppelin.

—What? Why—

—I don’t know. They’re fans… I shortened it to Zep till I can figure out something better.

—Well, that won’t be difficult. You look very clean. Do you use body wash?

—Yeah, it’s European.

—Yeah, I bet. You smell good. Look good, too. Stay away from me. Unless you have a question about work. Melissa says, her voice smoldering. —I’ll be back with a sandwich from the kitchen. I hope you don’t have any restrictions. The kitchen ignores them.