"Fuck," he mutters under his breath. I take a quick glance and he looks frustrated, looking at his laptop, shaking his head in disbelief. I wonder what he does. Maybe he's in upper management, just learning a major acquisition fell through. Or maybe he's nice; maybe he fundraises for a non-profit and he just can't find a venue for the next gala. Whatever it is, it's pissing him off and I get it. I'd be pissed off too if I had to be in the airport, waiting, bored out of my mind, and had to deal with work.
I try to look away from his laptop so as to not seem nosy. My eye drifts to his clothes. They seem clean, ironed. I wonder if he irons his own clothes. His gray slacks fit perfectly, sitting clean at the top of his polished shoes. His baby blue shirt with the rolled up sleeves makes him look like a caricature of the middle aged office worker, but it still makes my stomach tighten at how it fits him.
He takes care of himself.
His hair is effortlessly stylish, with strands of gray and white revealing his age. My thoughts begin to drift, wondering how his salt and pepper hair would look between my thighs, my hand running through them.
"Can I help you?" he asks, his eyes staring into mine. Idiot.
"I'm so sorry I completely zoned out," I blurt out, embarrassed. I feel my face getting hot. "I was so deep in thought, I'm sorry"
He chuckles a little. He has a hot laugh, I think to myself and instantly cringe at the stupid thought.
"That's alright," he shrugs and sighs. "It's hard to focus in an airport"
I nod along. We both linger for a second, I see him looking at me, deep in thought perhaps. For a second, we look at each other wondering if either of us is going to say anything else, and then it's over. He goes back to work and I'm sitting there wondering if he's the type to smile when he fucks you.
I look back at my phone and try to scroll through mindless content, keeping myself just distracted enough. It's getting colder and colder in the airport, and I'm thinking how funny it would be if his seat was next to me on the plane. Maybe we'll strike a conversation, maybe I can catch a whiff of his cologne, maybe I can see a dick imprint on those fitted pants.
He probably sits in business class anyway.
Another sigh, this time louder, stronger. I look up at him but he's looking at the board. I try to see what he's seeing, and I see the red words printed next to our flight: DELAYED.
As soon as I see it, the intercom starts to explain. It's a short delay, there's just too many planes trying to find landing. 30 minutes, they promise, but this cold unforgiving airport is never certain.
He turns and glances at me, looking me up and down. I meet his eyes, and shake my head a little. This is what he wants, right? A place to share the disappointment?
"I'm gonna miss my meeting like this, and they're already annoyed with me," he says. I'm not sure what to say, I've never been in a business meeting, but in movies, the stakes are high.
"It's always something with airports," I say, deflecting, "and it's so boring waiting here"
He nods along, reaching and closing his laptop, slowly packing away his papers and things into the bag. "You look like you're here on vacation," he says.
"Do I?" I chuckle. Is it really that obvious?
"You're not hectic, checking your phone or taking calls. No stress radiating off of you," he says, "that and pretty young girls like you coming here are usually students and tourists"
I cover my face with my hands to hide my face. How do people have the guts to say something so forward? I'm not sure if I like it or hate it.
I look back at him and he seems amused, smiling. "Thank you, I think," I say. His smile widens.
"What happens to your meeting?" I ask.
"I sent over everything they needed. It's not my problem anymore." He says, but I can sense the worry in his voice. I don't say anything, letting him take it in.
Intercom, again.
"Flight 2105 to Montreal, there has been a gate change to ensure timely boarding. Please make your way to gate 53B. Those who require assistance please visit the information desk."
Unbelievable. I always thought sunny days like this meant no problem with your flight but I guess mismanagement can happen any time.
He looks down at me again, scanning my face, my body.
"Do you know where the new gate is?" I ask him, desperate for interaction.
"Follow me" he says, picking up his bag. I fumble around with my things, picking up all the little bits I have to carry, and hurry behind him.
"So you are a tourist?" He says.
"Just because I don't know that specific gate?" I say, acting offended.
He smiles. "That and you didn't correct me before. Unless you're a student.." he looks at me.
I nod, but he doesn't see. "I'm both. I'm a student in Montreal actually."
He glances at my outfit, then keeps walking. I get a little worried. Did I say something wrong?
I just walk alongside him, slightly hurried. He finally focuses back, and puts my worries to rest.
"You don't dress like Montreal students," he says.
"What do we dress like?"
"I don't know," he says, "winter jackets and ugly messy boots?"
That one makes me laugh. He looks a little amused, a little offended. "In Summer?" I gesture to everything. "I think style rules have changed."
He smiles at me. "So you're not Canadian?" I ask him.
He shakes his head. "I go often for work but no, I love this city too much."
