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"Jason. You're still Jason Miller, 38 years old, 190 centimeters tall, top manager at..." I kept repeating to myself, and damn it, I still couldn’t fully believe it, but yeah — in the goddamn women’s restroom, standing in front of the mirror with my hands braced on the edge of the sink, eyes closed and head bowed, trying to ignore the suddenly even tighter pressure of bra straps and that unbearable sensation like two warm, soft but heavy hemispheres hanging from my chest, like glued-on bags of dense gel, quivering with every breath. I could feel the bra cups pressing them up from underneath, the underwires bending under their weight, the fabric clinging to my skin, creating a constant, almost intimate awareness… of the existence of these tits. My tits. They weren’t just some surface-level thing — they were alive. I felt their weight as I leaned over the sink, felt them softly shift forward, pulling at the straps that dragged my shoulders down.
I sucked in a sharp breath — and my breasts trembled. Yeah, they did — not my stomach, not my chest, but those damn fleshy pillows. I could swear I even felt the nipples react to the cold air from the AC cutting through the blouse. They responded with a faint tickle, like... like they’d come to life.
— Jason. You're still Jason Miller, — I whispered, but the voice came out soft, high, with a slight French accent. — Thirty-eight years old. One-ninety tall. Top manager at… at…
And that’s where I stumbled. The name of the company — my company — slipped away. Vanished. Hung there on the edge of my mind like a shadow, like a ghostly silhouette. I tensed, bit my lip, staring into the mirror at this slim, young woman with red hair pulled into a neat bun, a nose ring, and a wet gloss on her lips. Who is she? Who am I?
— What company did I work for? — I whispered at the mirror, but the reflection just straightened its shoulders, like it already knew the proper posture. — Who was my assistant? Fuck, even the name of someone on the board…
Nothing.
I felt a bead of sweat crawl down my back, getting caught in the dip between my shoulder blades — right where the blouse dug into the tattoo, which I felt as a faint sting. Like the skin still remembered the needle.
I suddenly lifted my head, fingers clutching the edge of the sink. The nail polish gleamed a little in the neon. My nails. My long, perfect nails. I was a woman. Everything I knew, everything I felt — it all proved it. Even the pain from the heels was so goddamn real I couldn’t deny it anymore. But inside... something still stirred, clinging to the remnants — the voice, the temper, that fire that had always been my core. I couldn’t just become this... Justine.
Or could I?
No-no-no! This is all fucking bullshit! I just need to find that damn old hag and make her change everything back. I know what she looks like, and now I’m finally free of whatever spell — or whatever the hell that was — had me during that horrible flight. At least now I can do and say whatever the hell I want without someone else pulling the strings. And yeah, even though I hate to admit it, it seems like I really do know all those dumb airplane rules like I was actually some chick dreaming of becoming a flight attendant and memorizing them all.
Yeah, I’ll go to the Air France information desk — they always check boarding pass matches, lost luggage, all that boring crap after a flight. I just knew — fucking knew! — that the lead flight attendant had access to the passenger list.