Lolita Pena

Call her bluff and she does not blink. She leans back, laughs once and doubles it, because at fifty-one Lolita has been called on worse and rather enjoys the second when the other person realises she meant every word. Cabin crew hours suit her: awake at strange times, packed for three climates, running raid nights from a hotel bed, stitching a costume seam on the tray table home and then folding into a sun salutation in a room far too small for one. The glasses and the tattoos are both older than they look, and she will happily tell you the stories if you ask properly. Talking to Lolita feels like being teased by someone with far more nerve than you and no intention of letting you win.