I am tired. I have been doing nothing but sitting for the last twenty-something hours, yet I am exhausted. I have run through the gamut of all emotions; flowing from excitement, to apprehension, then back to excitement, then worry, then fear, overlaid with sprinkles of mania here and there, and around in a circle again.
It's quite probable that it is not the lack of sleep but the emotional marathon that has sapped me of energy. On two different occasions, flight attendants asked me if I was alright. The lady in the seat beside me thought I had a fear of flying and kept trying to ply me with alcohol. I couldn't very well tell her the real reason for the state of my nerves.
Thinking of you both calms me down and sets all my senses alight. Plane ride or no plane ride, thoughts of you make me giddy.
I close my eyes and I see your eyes. I see them inches away from my own. Your pupils are dilated, as mine must be. If irises had parents, your irises would be the love children of a Tsavorite garnet and a tourmaline. They dazzle me, mesmerize me, as you drink me in.
Your breath is warm and sweet, and just inhaling the scent of you, feeling the heat of you, starts my heart racing.
We remain suspended in this magnetic pull as we try to let go of our fears. I want you to kiss me first. But you want me to kiss you first. Or maybe we just want to prolong this moment.
Which of us closes the gap? I don’t know. All I know is that I couldn’t wait another second to feel your lips on mine. Your mouth is as soft as I had always imagined. We kiss gently, pulling apart and coming together again, slowly. When I lick and nip at your bottom lip, you part your lips and allow my tongue to slide inside and meet yours. Our kisses melt together until two become one. I can’t get close enough to you.
I take your face in my hands, pressing myself closer to you as we kiss. I run my hands through your hair, down the nape of your neck, stroking and caressing you.
Just as I feel my knees beginning to fail me, you slip your arms around my waist. You hold me so tight that your strength overwhelms me. I have no choice but to surrender to you. I press myself against your body and moan into your mouth.
“Miss, are you okay?”
My eyes fly open to find the flight attendant crouched down beside my seat. She wears a look of concern.
Coming in close, she whispers, “You sounded like you were having a nightmare. You were moaning. But it’s okay, we’re about to land.”
If she only knew.
We said no promises. Well, I said no promises. You agreed. I don’t think I even gave you a chance to differ. Maybe that wasn’t fair. But it was safe. At least it gave the illusion of safety. With no promises, there could be no disappointments.
When I had told you of my travel plans you had seemed happy for me. You know I have been yearning to travel for some years now. And you know how stuff tends to not work out for me. The best laid plans of mice and men and all that.
I smile to myself as I wonder if you have ever known anyone as hapless as me. I hope you haven’t. I hope you haven’t met anyone as anything as me. No one who looks like me, who speaks like me, who laughs like me, who writes like me, who’s as raw and unpolished and naturally flawed in the same ways that I am.
I want to be your unique brand. I want to be your signature scent. I want the taste of me, the feel of my skin against yours, the scent of my desire for you to remain with you long after I am gone. I want you to have a special, secret smile that you smile whenever you think of me.
She will look at you and wonder what you are thinking about at that very moment. But she will never know.
I knew better than to expect you to pull out your calendar to see if you’d be available any time during my trip. Partly because you’re organised and generally don’t need to be constantly checking your calendar. You have all that shit together. And partly because I never said, “I’m coming to visit you,” and you never said “Will you be coming by this way? Would you like to get together?”.
There’s so much we don’t say. But I believe that there’s a lot we feel. How can there not be?
Well, I guess with my fanciful imagination, anything is possible.
If it is all just my imagination, then this is one hell of a powerful tool I have. Powerful tools can be dangerous if you don’t know how to use them properly. Part of me relishes the danger – the wild and untamed nature of my imagination can get me into all sorts of strife. Then there’s that other part of me that sometimes wishes that someone would quickly snatch the dangerous tool from me before I hurt myself or anyone else.
I know you would never snatch. You would take me by the hand, or perhaps the shoulders, and gently guide me to safety. I would look at you, waiting for the look of admonishment, waiting for you to make me feel small.
But that look would never come. You would smile at me, agree with me, “Yes, you are fucking crazy sometimes,” and you would hold me in your arms till I had stopped feeling like an idiot.