Luggage, carts, coats, newspapers, books, laptops and people. Lots of them. With visibility below minimums, Air Traffic Control was rerouting all incoming traffic and holding all departing flights. But there was still hope for those who were traveling and those awaiting incoming flights.
And so, they waited.
The people-watcher had no difficulty sorting out the A- from the B-type personalities. The As were ranting, whining, their body language aggressive. The Bs were accepting, very much into their 'que sera' mind frames. At 8:30, a female voice on the public address system announced: "Everyone with tickets aboard any carrier, kindly check with your airline. Because of inclement weather, all flights from Greensboro have been canceled this evening. Again, check with your carrier."
The woman at the microphone, undoubtedly grateful she was out of sight, repeated the message, then clicked off.
The people-watcher, reclining on his chair in the corner, observed the commotion her words had caused. Everyone, it seemed, was saying much the same thing: "What'll we do now?" ... "This is preposterous" ... "I'll never use such-and-such a carrier again" ... "What are we supposed to do, sleep here all night?", and so on.
He was amused, a little superior and he knew he was being smug. He could afford to be. His company car was in the nearby parking lot, his trip wasn't urgent and the motel on Route 9, just three miles from the airport, was owned by a friend. The traveler's inconvenience would be minimal.
People were on the move, to ticket counters, to hail cabs, or back to their cars. Activity was the key word. Except . . .!
Except, cater corner to where the people-watcher was making his observations. The woman there possessed a relaxed body language and a detached facial expression. She practically reposed, long legs crossed, as she, too, people watched.
"Ah," he thought, "a fellow traveler, as it were."
Her eyes caught his the precise moment his thought ended. He smiled the approving smile usually given to strangers whose predicaments and methods of handling them are in sync. She returned the smile, raised her hand, and wiggled her index finger in the universal come hither gesture.
Her smile held as he approached, and she said, "You're about the cockiest man in the whole building, aren't you?"
"I won't deny it, but maybe that's because I've been who those people are. Now I know enough not to cry about things I can do nothing about. But you, you're of a mind frame very much approximating my own. Why?"
"Because as much as I want to get home," she responded, "there's no way I'll impose my need on the aviator's sense of safety. Besides, I like dense fog. It's almost sexual."
The people-watcher's flare for snappy repartee deserted him. He was at a loss. He said nothing.
"Where are you going?" she resumed.
"Toronto," he said. "And you?"
"Home to New York. Is Toronto your home?"
"Yes, but I'm here in Greensboro every week on company business. They've given me a car so I just leave it in the lot when I go."
"So what are you going to do between now and tomorrow morning?"
He explained about his friend and the motel, that with his car here he'd have no problem being rested and relaxed during his wait for clear skies.
"And you?" he asked.
"I'd made up my mind to just sit but, I must say, the idea of a warm room is very appealing."
"My Name is Alan Davis," he said.
"Nice to meet you, Alan. My name is Nancy Jones."
"Well, Miss Jones. Would you care to accompany me?"
"I'd be delighted," she said.
He drove very slowly, the fog allowing minimal vision. Miss Jones was relaxed and confident. Davis was alert and tense.
"Mmm," she said, her hand reaching to touch his knee, "I love the way this weather makes me feel."
He hadn't been aloof to her charms. In fact, Davis's reaction to her touch caused a little movement in his pants. Miss Jones, herself an experienced observer, didn't allow the spectacle to escape her attention. She slid her hand up his leg directly to her target, applied small pressure, feeling him... and something else. That something else provoked her to squeeze just a little harder, evoking a small moan.
"Did you put it on or was it put on for you?" she asked.
He was slow to respond, even as she held and squeezed. He sighed and admitted it was a remembrance device snapped shut three days earlier by his sometime Mistress in Toronto.
"Sometime?" she asked. "What does that mean?"
"We don't have a permanent understanding. We get together occasionally. That's all. She asked that I not remove it until I get home."
Incredulous, she said, "Asked? Only asked?"
She squeezed harder. He whimpered. "If you were mine," she said, "your balls would be tied and separated. And I wouldn't be asking. What's more, I'd want the thong-ends coming out of your fly so I could play by pulling and torturing them at will."
"So, you stand for sensual female domination," he said.
"Absolutely. I'm no stranger to the harness you're wearing and, by the way, you'll be showing it to me in more detail later on."
