Now there’s a nice lay, he thinks to himself, as he politely sidesteps and lets her out of line so she can carry her food over to the condiment island. A flicker of a smile on her lips as she passes. A flicker, nothing more, but it’s there. He hurriedly pays for his order, not waiting for the $1.84 in change or the receipt. No time for that now. She’d smiled at him. He juggles his two trays, weaving his way through the airport crowd as he prays for an opening near her, by the ketchup pump or the napkin dispenser, at the very least. The napkins would be a stretch, but he could manage it. He’ll force his way in if he has to. He promises himself this. Well, maybe not force, but he’ll definitely say, “Excuse me,” pointedly. Definitely. She isn’t going to get away that easily, not after a smile. No way.
“Could you pass me a spork?” she asks, trying to keep her burger together with a free hand. Looking right at him. She could have picked anyone, but she’s looking right into his eyes.
Like clockwork, he mentally notes as he picks up an individually wrapped utensil and hands it over. A finger brushing hers. The slightest of intimacies, but at the moment of impact it feels as if a chorus of angels has burst into song. That might be going a little far, but it seems very similar to that. It does. People are beginning to pile up behind him, and he grabs a packet of relish for emphasis as he offers, “I hate that name, don’t you? Did they have to call it ‘spork’? I mean, why not a ‘foon’ or something equally stupid?”
“Yeah, I know.” She flashes a grin while sneaking a couple of fries.
“So … you stuck here, too?” he ventures, filling a few paper thimbles with mustard as cover while he engages.
“Yep,” she mumbles, more to herself than anything, but it allows him to lean in a bit closer. The ol’ lean-in, a classic.
“Sorry? I couldn’t hear you—that announcement,” he shouts, pointing up at the ceiling with an elbow as he says it. Another smile floats his way. Jesus, he thinks, what a pushover. She would do me right here, or in the lounge, at least, a hand job under my coat or something. No question.
“I never get a call on the courtesy phone,” she says, laughing. Not a giggle, mind you, this is a full-bodied laugh. “Not once in my adult life have I ever been called to that damned white phone! Guess I’m not very special.” And she holds eye contact the whole time. Bingo. She takes a nugget from his conversation and personalizes it. Adds a little melodramatic flourish at the end. Perfect response. Perfect.
Why not just press a handwritten note into my palm and be done with it? A pair of panties slipped into my carry-on? She is begging for it, he imagines as he gives that faux chuckle of his, the good one that most everyone at the office likes and chuckles along with. “Well, let me be the first,” he suggests. “You go stand over there near the receiver and I’ll have them page you with a desperate message or something.” That could’ve been better, a stronger joke at the end or maybe a wink thrown in, but it seems to work.
“And what would the desperate message be? Huh?” Complete amusement on her part now. Absolutely complete.
“Oh, I’d think of something.” He chuckles again (risky to use it twice in the same conversation, but so far so good). A bull’s-eye. She looks up expectantly while blowing a stray piece of auburn hair out of her eyes. Waits another second. People are grabbing things from around them now, realizing that a “moment” is officially taking place here.
“Come on, don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me what it would be.”
“Umm … something like, I dunno, maybe like ‘Hey, tell the redhead that I’m nuts about her and to get home safely, because I already miss her.’ Something like that,” he says without even looking over. He doesn’t need to. That was a cruise missile, that one. If she were an Iraqi, she’d be dead now. He gives it another beat, throws some straws down near the three corn dogs, then glances over. She’s still staring at him.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in six years,” she whispers. “Seriously, since I graduated, that’s the best line I’ve heard.” It’s not a tear, but something’s definitely going on in those blue, blue eyes of hers. Liquid of some sort.
“Then you’re welcome, and it’s not a line. You deserve to hear it every day. Twice,” he says, chuckling one last time. A new personal best. Three chuckles, and not a sliver of suspicion out of her. Excellent. He realizes it’s time to make a move, see what happens. Test the theory. One last smile on his part, what the hell, he even tosses in the wink, and then he turns to go. At the last possible second, it happens. Her voice lifts, up over the throb of the crowd.
“Listen … you wanna sit together or something?”
To turn quickly would be wrong—too desperate, he figures. Better to stop slowly, maybe sigh or something, with a slight but perceptible drop of the shoulders, and then gracefully look back. A weary frown.
“Geez, you know what, I’d love to, but …”
“You can’t, no, I understand …”
“It’s just, I’m with some colleagues,” he finally offers. “I’ve got their stuff here, and they’re way down by D23.”
“No problem,” she says bravely, but she is clearly disappointed. Clearly. He lets the moment hang between them, lets her dance on the gallows of expectation a bit longer, then bequeaths her another look. The “if only” look that has carried him from junior high to this very minute, standing here before her.
“Just my luck,” he says. A thin smile and shrug from her. He fires one back, matching her shrug for shrug. He has to fire one back; it’s expected. Then one step each. Maybe two. He counts out “one, two, three, four, five” to himself, even using “Mississippi” in between, before pivoting around. Checking again. And she’s still looking. Checkmate. Bobby Fischer would come out of hiding to watch him work, days like these. Before he can fully savor the victory, however, the floating sound of the courtesy phone erupts overhead, raining down with cleansing static. Big smiles from both of them on that one, the timing impeccable. Courtesy ex machina. And exit, stage left.
He snaps open the Money section of USA Today for emphasis, shuffles the pages a bit, just to let the girls know he’s reading, to take it a little easy with the Hello Kitty chatter. Doesn’t even glance up at the wife. The food was a touch cold on delivery, but he felt he needed to stop for the paper after that. The “interlude.” Something to read, a helpful moat between him and the family. It had taken a minute to find them, the girls having got it into their collective heads to snag a corner table instead of the perfectly good one he’d selected. Doesn’t matter. Whatever keeps them quiet. He scans the stocks one last time—doesn’t own any but enjoys seeing who’s losing out—then folds the paper once, and over again. In the distance, a flash of red. He looks up, cautiously now; wives have radar. And there she is, the condiment gal. Sixty feet away. A whole booth to herself, busiest airport in the world, and she scores a booth. Staring straight at him. Another one of those looks, but with a twist this time. The mouth a bit turned down, the eyes a touch narrower. There could be disgust there; he’s not absolutely sure. It’s hard at twenty yards to read disgust with certainty. Might be the burger not agreeing with her, but probably not. She even shakes her head a touch when one of the girls erupts on his side, up from under the table and suddenly at his throat, pawing him, tugging on his ear. He silently tries to explain, plead his case, prove that he’s different. That he’d give it all up for her, if only. If only. He looks over again, but she has vanished. Left her tray and faded into the lunch crowd. Maybe never even really existed. He wonders about this as he toys with his girl’s braids. Adjusts her tiny sweater. Brushes crumbs from her flushed, tired cheeks.
“You have beautiful children,” comes the voice, not three feet away. He hadn’t planned on this one. The surprise attack. Out of the jungle at dawn. The girls titter and make faces, his spouse wipes ketchup from her chin and grins up foolishly, he buries a “Thank you” into his Sprite. He considers using the chuckle a fourth time but immediately backs away from the idea.
“You must be so proud,” she says, holding this a touch too long. Nearly an inappropriate amount of time, he feels, with no clear response from their side of the table. Finally, she moves off, her loafers making a soulful squeak as she treads along the rubberized Spanish-tile floor. A carry-on rattling behind her. A blast of white noise from the courtesy phone covering her tracks.
“That was sweet,” says the wife, breaking the latest détente. One of her hopeful looks.
“Yeah,” he states, flatly. Directly. Scooping up the Life section and burrowing in. Thinking all the while, She wants me. She wants me. I know she wants me.