Chapter 1: Steve Writing
My eyes were drawn to her. As soon as she entered the lounge, my eyes were drawn to her. The people sitting around me eating bagels, muffins, or happy meals, the crackling announcements of flights to other places, and the gray vinyl seats and stained blue carpets-they faded away. My eyes were drawn to her.
She was blond, but whether it was her own color or borrowed I couldn't tell. She wasn't tall-maybe five-four. Her figure wasn't statuesque. It was voluptuous. Yes, I think that's the best word for it-voluptuous. Rounded, swelling, bubbling, overflowing, mouthwatering, voluptuous. But there was more, and a more I treasured. She looked warm, comfy, inviting. Her clothing was attractive, tasteful, not gaudy, but just right for her. She wore an elegant, flowing, rose silk blouse, a couple undone buttons guiding the eye to inviting cleavage. The blouse was tucked into well-cut jeans that hugged her form warmly. On her feet were creamy red leather high-heeled sandals.
Her face was beautiful, the face of a Lands' End model. Not gaunt, but full and warm and approachable, yet wonderfully angelic and cute at the same time. It was her smile, I think, flashing from across the room, that caught me. It's not that she was smiling at me-she hadn't seen me. But her teeth were perfect, and they flashed with joy, with happiness, with mischief. I was smitten.
I watched as she made her way to the ticket counter and spoke to the agent. How old was she? I didn't know. She was maybe forty-five, forty-eight, but with a beauty transcending age. She had the beauty of a woman of forty, of thirty, of twenty-all at once. She combined the warmth and grace of experience and maturity with the joyful anticipation of youth. I watched her. She traveled with a man her age who was clearly mentally handicapped. She was solicitous, good-natured. She was his guardian, it seemed.
I watched her. When she spoke, at times, she bubbled. I watched her when she didn't speak. At times her face seemed sad, wistful. At other times it seemed serene. It was always lovely. But she was far away, halfway across the room, and I went back to my book, D. H. Lawrence's "The Rainbow," rather less impressive than I'd hoped.
My flight was called. I was near the back, next to the window. Not my favorite spot. Front aisle was more to my taste. I prayed for an empty center seat, but the stewardess announced over the intercom that the flight would be full. No luck. I prayed for someone little who would leave me the armrest.
I watched people come down the aisle. "Not him," I thought. "I'll bet it's them." "Oh, please, not those people."
But then she came, behind the retarded man, who was bobbing along with a big goofy grin. They were coming my way. The plane was almost full. Closer. Yes. They peered at the row numbers. It was my row.
She pulled a suitcase on wheels and carried a bag and a purse. She tried to lift the suitcase to the last empty space in the overhead compartment. She couldn't. The retarded man hadn't noticed her need. I leapt up. "May I help?" I asked. The suitcase was full, but I easily lifted it and wedged it into place and closed the compartment door. I returned to my seat.
"I think you have the center seat," she said to retarded man, starting to help him in. My heart sank. He would talk the whole way. I would get no rest. He would drive me crazy.
"I want this one," the man said, pointing to the aisle seat. "I don't know that man." He laughed.
"Alright," said my lovely lady. She slid in next to me. "Sorry," she said. Sorry? I wasn't sorry at all! She helped her companion sit down and stowed away their bags under the seats in front of them.
She tried to buckle her seatbelt, but it was too tight. The previous occupant of the seat had been a bit less voluptuous. She looked embarrassed, as if the seat were shouting out her waist size. She tugged. It didn't loosen.
"May I help you?" I said. She blushed and said yes. Her left hand was on the buckle. My left hand closed over hers, soft, small, and warm. The warmth seemed to flash up my arm. My right hand reached across, grabbed the other end of the buckle, lifted up. The strap loosened at once. My forearm was pressing against her waist. Her waist was soft. It gave a little. I could feel her through my forearm. The hairs on my arm were transmitting her to my brain.
"Thank you," she said. She in turn helped the man beside her, who was quite puzzled by his seatbelt.
I was immersed in my novel. I don't generally talk to people on planes. Maybe I'm too shy. I smile, I watch, sometimes I talk a little, but generally not much.
I watched her. She was one of the loveliest women I had ever seen. She was better close up than from a distance, and she was striking from a distance. Did she know I was watching her? Could she sense me watching from the corner of my eye? Did she notice my head turn? I don't know. I watched her. Her eyes were green, a lovely light green, thin jade with a light behind it. Her lips were pink rose, almost the same color as her blouse, and they were full and soft. Her skin was lovely, glowing with health.
The stewardess guided us through crash procedures. We taxied. We rose into the air.
I watched her. If a woman is too thin, the time comes in her forties when lines form in her face. If she has a little more padding, is more comfortable, there are pads of flesh on her face that thicken a little. I suppose this can be a bit unnerving to a man in his twenties. I'm fifty. I admire it. She was aging beautifully, gracefully. She was utterly beautiful, but not twenty, not thirty, not forty. She was better. Her face wasn't hardening. It was softening. Her skin was luminous. Her hair was luminous. Her teeth were luminous. Merely having her next to me was a gift. I watched her as I would watch a campfire. I watched her as I would watch a doe in the woods. I watched her as I would watch a newborn. I watched her as I would watch the tenderest of lovers. I watched her.
There's always a little battle on airplanes over armrests. Men will sit with arms folded for hours, their necks and shoulders aching, rather than let their arms touch the arms of other men on armrests. Women are often overpowered by men who, knowing their own strength and asserting it, take the armrests for themselves. Women are often afraid of being touched, of touching, lest they give the wrong impression. I don't want to make women uncomfortable. I'm usually polite, but careful not to impose myself unless interest is signaled.
At first I was careful to leave her room. I took the front half of the armrest and left her the back. But then her arm touched mine. I thought she would flinch away, perhaps apologize. That's what usually happens. She didn't. She was talking with the retarded man, leaning toward him. He had a hundred questions. I smiled to hear her reassuring him in her low, full, round, lovely voice. Her arm rested companionably next to mine. We both wore short sleeves. I could feel her naked arm. It was not a little arm. It was full, round, not an arm to encircle between thumb and forefinger. It was an arm to adore. It was so soft, so soft. Now and then I would move my arm a little, up, down, as if adjusting it. No, it was only to feel her arm against mine.
The people in the row in front of us leaned their seats back. I'm tall. I had to spread my legs to avoid having my knees crushed. My thigh brushed hers. Her legs, full and round in designer jeans, were also spread. I thought she would move her thigh away. There was room. She didn't. She let it stay there. I could feel our thighs together through our jeans, our arms together skin to skin.
Voluptuous. She was voluptuous. She filled out her seat and spread out a little into mine. A round, healthy roll of flesh pressed lightly against my side. I loved it.
Our meals came. It was cramped. Our trays were down. We ate. She helped the retarded man open his sandwich, his potato salad, his cookies, his napkin. Now and then, as if adjusting myself, I lifted my thigh an inch and brought it back down. I merely wanted the sensation of her thigh moving against mine. As I ate, I moved my arm more, up and down. She did not pull back, did not remove her arm.
The meal over, the movie started. She had bought a headset for the retarded man, though not for herself, and he avidly watched the little TV hanging from the overhead compartment. The lovely lady put her head back against the headrest, but it was uncomfortable. Her pillow was in the small of her back. I offered her mine. She thanked me and smiled. The smile far repaid my little gift.
But it wasn't comfortable for her. She couldn't find rest. Our tray tables were down though our trays were gone. "Try this," I said. I showed her how I rest on planes, with my elbows on the tray table, my forehead against the seat in front of me, my head between my hands, which are resting on the seat. She put the pillow against the seat in front of her, crossed her arms on the tray table, and rested.
Somehow, this brought our arms closer together. I loved the creamy smooth feel of her arm. Our thighs still touched. I began gently lifting and dropping my leg, and our thighs and calves were touching. Our arms were touching. I slid my arm quietly back and forth against hers.
