Can you pretend that airplanes in the night sky like shooting stars? I could really use a wish right now and stop this enormous black night covered in lights as if it wants to resemble a satin evening gown decorated with strass from pressing on my wrists, arms, shoulders from choking my neck, my throat and my mouth, and itching in the back of my head, and in the depths of my dreams and memories, so I could jump straight on the very next plane on to the UK and not being stuck here in Amsterdam airport during this everlasting and exhausting night under the reign of the dark knight.
The iPad's battery is almost dead, and surprisingly I don't have any missed calls on my iPhone, as if no one cared where the hell could I be, but somehow it's not puzzling and not touching me in any imaginable way, as it always did before during these tiring February weeks of having quite an intimate relationship with my work; moreover it feels as if the time got glued to my cold coffee bun: espresso, no milk, double sugar, and no joy in these endless waiting seconds of stillness and long-awaited calmness in the middle of the country I've never seen aside from the ascending plane's aisles.
I've already talked to what seems like every saleswoman in the alcohol, perfume and jewelery department, made a few acquaintances, most of them useless, reread a poem's book I always hang around with and even bought some magazines about cars and then threw them away to the empty bin located on the far side of the waiting lounge, not mentioning finishing my today's work and even planning the whole upcoming weekend, and this schedule void started getting on my nerves, because I' m the kind of person who never wastes any time on sensitive affairs, like watching the planes take up and dissapear into the night's delightful embraces, like the time I wasted in her arms.
“Can you pretend that the airplanes in the night sky like shooting stars? I could really use a wish right now”, trying to stop slightly trembling of slight embarrassment, after some time spending observing his moves and his gorgeous appearance, she finally taps this intriguing stranger on the shoulder.
“What kind of a wish”, he replies with a velvety timbre in his voice, on a border between hints of interest and slight boredom
“So that we could make these hours of waiting for our flights freeze”, her voice sounds as if in her early twenties she's still full of hope and belief in the power of damn thing pronounced l.o.v.e.
“ It's not freezing in hell”, he cuts the crap
“ I would have come here every day just to get to know people like you better”, she interrupts his upcoming reflections on being stuck in the middle of nowhere named Schiphol airport and takes him by his warm open hand.
“ I am not an interesting person”, he jumps on a sofa of the first bar they pass, half because he feels a bit uncomfortable holding her hand, half because he is actually uncomfortable because of the feelings he gets when holding her hand
“ Me neither”, she lies in return
“ I'm not seeing anyone”, he's back in the game
“ Great, whatever she says would not change anything anyway but somehow he arises his astonishing green eyes from his espresso-double sugar coffee bun and casts that caring and deep sight so she quickly changes the topic of this seamless talk, even their eyes could do better than their tongue muscles, - I quit drinking coffee”
“I quit drinking”, all of a sudden, even for him, he shares something with a girl he's known for what seems like an eternity, or eight minutes fifty seconds in fact.
“ So you are a good man”, she smiles and her lips move to her left ear and her eyes, they get warmer, as if her ice's melting in a 100 w microwave oven
“ Mum tells me I am”, he smiles back, so wide and so tenderly, and, like in slow motion, his smile falls of his face, gracefully, slowly, truly, and he looks back at her, not knowing what else to say
“Can I kiss you”, she knows perfectly well they do not have any time for any more personal questions about work, hobbies, families and favorite fragrances, as if they just couldn't have met anywhere aside the airport's waiting lounge
“ Of course, without the tongue”, - he finishes the last word on her creamy and pleasant lips
“ It felt like kissing a dead man”, - she doesn't say a word on the electricity which hit them both as their skin met
“ Did you ever...”, he got interrupted by his own flight's announcement
“You got to go”, her voice, now deadly serious
“ I know”, his, probably, too
“ Then, go”, she replies, after a long pause, stands up from the sofa and comes too close, as
if she wants to put her arms around his neck, and do not let go till he gives her the guarantees she always needed, so she could be sure he doesn't leave without saying a word
“Yeah”, - he steps back, casts a very attentive look, as if to remember her in every
single detail: her blonde hair, stuck in that silly ponytail, her gentle face with
strange brown lips, and her quite aggressive red skirt, probably worn because she dies for
attention, when sights, and turns to leave
“Call me”, she almost screams through this overcrowded airport halls to his gate, with all the people not paying attention to what seems like so important to her and to all what has previously happened in her life, moment
“ I will”, - for the last time this evening, he observes the endless sea of plane lights dancing in the night skies, not even using any wishes of making this moment last, and goes away, without taking her name and her number: guess that would be the best ending for their (not even started) love story.
