Rescue Cheesecake

There were about a dozen women, all gorgeous in a 1950s pinup sort of way, airbrushed and curled and gartered. I was a disconnected observer in their space. They all lived in an airplane hangar, shafts of light shining from high windows. It was an airplane hangar that had been civilized by all the women -- there were partitions and decorations and bathing facilities.

It was on an airfield. The women wore beautiful 1950s evening gowns and nighties, on the verge of slutty but not quite crossing it. Most of the time, they just flopped around the building, reading magazines, adjusting hair or makeup, or listening to the radio.

Then a call would come. A light flashed on the wall, a light in a wire cage, like a clock in a basketball court. All the women pulled lumpy jackets over their beautiful clothing, helmets over their elaborate hair, and large, clunky boots took the place of stiletto heels.

They all ran out, but I don't know why. Something needed doing.