Friendly skies

I’m sitting in the Austin airport waiting for flight 1227 to Dallas, and then I’m off to sunny Tampa. I’m sitting here watching and day dreaming about the boy across from me. To be honest, he’s really a man. Probably in his thirties, if I’ve summed him up right. His fingers tap quickly against his faded jeans as he listens to his Ipod.

So my mind starts to wander. I wonder where he’s going. I wonder what his curly dark hair looks like in the morning after a night of blissful sex. I wonder if he’s Mexican, Spanish or Portuguese. I wonder what it’s like to have those dark brown eyes looking down on me.

I look over as he takes out a tangerine and skillfully peels the orange off in one seamless movement. He stretches, he looks around. No doubt by this point he sees me staring, and probably thinks I am the nut I am. I wonder if he’s curious as to what I’m typing. I smile and laugh a little to myself.

There’s nothing like the airport. It’s a mixture of hope and dreams all wrapped up in a horrifying smell, like the hospital but not so sterile. I smile, he smiles.

I think he’s beautiful, and for this moment he is my little airport dream. In a minute we’ll get on the same plane, going different places, and then it ends. These thoughts are as innocent as peeling the skin off of a bright orange fruit in one fatal swoop. I wish he was unraveling me.

They call his group. He packs up his belongings, looks over and smiles at me again. I wink and smile back.