Going Home

The airport terminal was packed with people moving around like ants. Everyone was traveling for the holidays. I had packed light to avoid the check-in lines. It wasn’t like I had any elegant evenings planned. I’d sleep in, spend the day cooking with my aunts and mother in the kitchen. Have dinner, find a quiet place to read, and then spend the next couple of days eating leftovers. Two pairs of jeans and a couple of sweaters were appropriate.

“Anyone sitting here?” the long wiry man asked.

“No, go ahead.” I picked up my jacket without looking his way and flung it over my lap.

“Thanks.” He sat down and made himself comfortable.

I prayed he didn’t start a conversation. I was too tired for small talk. Too tired to give him a fake smile and pleasant disposition.

“Are you waiting for the 10:30 flight to Dallas?” he inquired.

I nodded yes.

“I hope it’s on time. I’ve been flying nonstop for six days and not one plane has taken off or landed on time.”

“Umh.”

“Gum? It’s sugar-free.” He extended his pale hand, reminding me of the inside of a coconut.

“No, thank you.” I kept my face in my book.

“How is that book? I’ve seen it in every bookstore window.”

I smiled. Not giving him an answer purposefully. I looked at my watch and said a miniature prayer.

It wasn’t answered. Not in the least. Airic, with an “A,” Coleman took advantage of the uncharted seating and followed me to the back section of the plane. He talked for the whole three hours to Dallas. I learned about his new software business, his two children whom he hasn’t seen in over a year, claiming that his ex-wife’s new husband forbids visitation, his Labrador named Kenan, and his promise to himself to never marry again. At least not in this lifetime. The only thing that kept me sane was that by the time I really got a good look at him, he could be classified as decent looking. His pinched straight nose that blossomed slightly at the nostrils must’ve been passed down by an old white grandmother; the rest was clearly contributed by African descendants. Other than that, his strong chin and open-hearted smile made up for it. That is, when he finally did smile.

After he cleared the plate of all his drama, he opened up with some laughter and high spirits. We drank Bloody Marys and ate pretzels while we talked loud over the plane engine’s roar.

“Would you be interested in going out when you get back to DC?” His question took me by surprise. I had felt a little something while we were talking, but I thought it was the buzz of the vodka.

“I don’t see why not,” I slurred.

“So I’ll take that as a yes.” He pulled out a business card and flipped it over. “Put your number here.”

I reached over the arm of the seat and scribbled my name and number as legibly as I could. “You promise you won’t forget whose face belongs with that number.” I was giddy. “I don’t want you acting surprised when you see me for the second time, claiming it was the alcohol.”

“I won’t forget you. This has been the best flight I’ve had in a long while. You’re very refreshing, Venus.”

“Refreshing, now I haven’t heard that one before.”

“Tell me what you’ve heard. Enlighten me.” He leaned close for me to do tell.

“Bossy, mean, unmerciful, and unbending.” I smiled proudly. What could he do to me? I was already a castaway. This stranger couldn’t punish me for being honest, for not being perfect.

“I don’t believe it. There isn’t a chance you could be all those things with a smile like that.”

“Thank you.” He declawed my defense. I toned down just a bit.

I stared out the window at the rows of land sectioned off like ticktacktoe. It was a clear sunny day in Dallas, Texas. Too bad this wasn’t my stop. Thank goodness this wasn’t my stop, or Airic would have a golden-brown kitty following him in search of more strokes.

He tucked the card with my number written on it back in his generic black wallet. His long slender fingers could be those of a pianist.

When we touched down, I extended my hand for a good-bye. “It was nice meeting you. And seriously, don’t feel obligated to use that number.” I began walking in the direction of the connecting flight.

“Would you mind if I wait here with you? Your connection flight doesn’t leave for what . . . another hour or so?” He stood tall and erect. His business suit was reasonably wrinkled from the wear and tear of the flight.

“I’d like that. Sure.” We walked, taking our time, being bumped occasionally by the hurried passengers.

“Has anyone ever told you that besides a night club, an airport is the worst place to meet someone new?”

“No,” I answered.

“Good. Glad no one’s ever told you.”

I leaned into him, pushing his lean body out of balance a little. “You’re silly.”

We sat down facing the picturesque window, where my plane was already parked.

“Would it be possible to get your number . . . where you’re staying in Los Angeles?”

I took my time answering, but I was thinking . . . fast. Why not?

“I’m staying at my mom’s, and if you call one minute past the time I’m no longer there she’s going to treat you like a cold-calling salesman. I’m just warning you. Got another business card?” I asked, holding out my palm. I wrote my parents’ number down with the dates of my stay. He really did have a nice smile.