I fly a lot. You may already know that.
And flights are usually boring pains in the ass. And in the legs. Let’s not forget the legs - how they’re cramped up and irritated from having to sit still for so long.
And don’t even get me started on the chain-gang aspects of airport arrival and the checking of baggage and the checking of my purse and my laptop and my body with wands and other crappola before I even get on the fucking flight with the leg cramps and sleeping ass and the resultant deep need for white wine.
Then there’s the rarely-met need for a passenger in the seat beside me that isn’t gonna creep me out from the get-go, or talk too much like they’re my new best friend. Yeah. There’s that need as well.
So I’m in a bad mood walking down the aisle, avoiding elbows, pushing slow people along with my sighs. I get to my seat, and I swing around to sit, and in my peripherals I see a man in blue, looking like Dickens on steroids. And guess what? I love Dickens. And I love this man in the blue overcoat. And I want him. Badly.
He sent a crooked smile my way.
“Robin,” he said.
“Yes,” I said back.
We were quiet for a while. It was his turn to talk, and I wasn’t taking it.
“So…what do you want to do about…this?” he finally said.
“Let’s just talk.”
“Just talk?” He seemed surprised I hadn’t mentioned the Mile-High Club.
“Let’s talk about sex and violence in literature,” I said.
Sparky raised a bushy eyebrow, and he began…
…I already know what you’re thinking. We have a mind-meld going on about such things, now don’t we?
I mean, it’s not like I haven’t spent the better part of a year trying to get in the man’s pants - incorporeally speaking, of course.
But here’s the thing. Hearing him talk tingled like foreplay.