It was two days before Christmas, and we were trying our best to get home to San Francisco from New York. It just happened that we were both in New York on business and were able to schedule our return flight together. It's something that rarely happens, given the way our schedules work. It's not like we were trying to get to a big family celebration, because my family lives in Sweden and Gina's in Italy. We have a tradition of visiting both families at one big get-together in the Caribbean that is always scheduled for mid-February, when travel is cheaper and easier. But it's always nice to be back in our place in Mill Valley for Christmas, even if we weren't having a big family gathering.
I was waiting for Gina in the United Red Carpet Room at JFK. She was driving down from a meeting in Connecticut, and I had arrived from a court hearing in the City an hour ahead of her. I'd already sent her a good news/bad news message.
Gina,
Good news and bad news.
Our non-stop to SFO is cancelled. Something about the plane or the crew being stuck in Chicago due to a blizzard. Apparently it's snowing most of the way across the country.
The sort of good news is that I have us booked on a flight to DIA, but it is going to get in there too late to catch the last flight to SFO, so United is going to put us up in a hotel in Denver. I figured getting to Denver was better than staying here, given that the storm is headed our way. It appears there is no way to get home tonight. Not clear about tomorrow either, but we will tackle that when we get to Denver. One step at a time in these situations.
The good news is we will be stuck in a hotel in Denver together instead of by ourselves. Could have been worse.
Love,
Leif.
Her response was about what I expected:
Sigh!
But, okay, I am glad I'll be stranded in Denver with you. Better if it was Majorca. But better Denver with you than Majorca by myself.
Ciao,
Gina
As she walked into the Red Carpet Room, I was, as always, stunned. She is average height, 5'5", and has a voluptuous Italian figure—nice round bottom and tits, bigger than an apple, but smaller than a melon, and her legs, oh! her legs are to die for. If she had just been three or four inches taller, she could have been a model for a nylon manufacturer instead of a marketing executive. She has the sexiest legs in the world. And her eyes—dark brown with the longest lashes in the world. Her hair is raven and cut into a pageboy, easier to care for with her travel schedule, she always says.
Of course, I couldn't really see all of these features as she came into the Red Carpet Club towing her roller bag, because she was dressed in a dark conservative business suit that came down to just below the knees and included a jacket that pretty thoroughly hid those wonderful breasts of hers, plus she was wearing a dark wool overcoat, because, well because it was winter in New York, and everyone wears a coat like that if they can afford it.
We made a somewhat unusual couple because her smallish stature and smoldering looks are a strong contrast to mine. I am 6'5" and have blonde hair and blue eyes. My build is tall and lanky. When I was in college and still had hair down to my shoulders and a red beard, my friends called me "the Viking."
She greeted me with a peck on the cheek that required me to lean forward and her to stand on her toes, a technique we mastered years ago.
"How was your meeting?" I asked.
"Boring. Could have been done by video conference, especially given the little that we accomplished. How was your meeting?"
"Well, it was a court hearing, but otherwise the same. Boring and very little accomplished. The judge just kind of kicked the can down the road for another six months."
"So, we're stuck in Denver for the night?" she asked.
"Yep," I replied in my best Swedish accent.
"Did you use those Swedish charms of yours on the ticketing agent?"
"Of course."
"But they didn't work?"
"Nope."
"Why not? They always work on me. Was she gay?"
"Well, based on the big black guy I saw her walk out of here with when her shift ended, my guess is definitely not gay. I think the real problem is that there just isn't another plane to San Francisco tonight. I did get us upgraded to first, however," I said as I handed Gina her boarding pass, "So I wasn't a total failure. Let me get you a drink. We have an hour before we board."
"Sigh. . . okay. Scotch, straight up. McCallum, if they have it."
As I returned with the drinks, I noticed that another couple was settling into a pair of seats opposite us. He was short and swarthy with about three day's beard and black hair that would have hung to his shoulders were it not tied in a pony tail. Not fat though. Very trim. She was quite a bit taller than him and fair skinned with long blonde hair. She was what one would describe as lithe, perhaps even skinny, except for the better-than-average size boobs on her thin chest. Almost no hips, and you could tell that she was not carrying any flab by the way her tight, torn jeans fit her.
He was dressed like her—torn jeans, t-shirt, and a leather coat. Actually they were an amusing contrast to Gina and me, in our conservative dark blue business suits.
As I set the drinks down, I could tell that Gina was ogling the new arrivals—both of them. Gina wasn't gay, but she always appreciated a sexy build, be it man or woman.
"Well the scenery has improved," I said to her in Swedish as I sat down.
"Shhhh! They may understand," she responded in Italian. We had both made a significant effort to learn the other's native tongue, mostly as a concession to our families at home. It came in handy in situations like this.
"Well, they are certainly going to understand your ogling," I continued in Swedish.
He went to get drinks, and she grabbed her carry-on and headed for the washroom, leaving the rest of their gear to tie down the seats. I guess we looked trustworthy. People in dark blue suits usually do look trustworthy. At least they won't steal your luggage--but your money in a financial deal, well, not so clear that the dark blue suit, white shirt, conservative tie, and short haircut is a guarantee of reliability. The investment banker I had been defending in court earlier in the day was a classic case of deceit in a dark blue suit.
We both ogled her ass as she walked away. "She has a cute ass," Gina said to me in Swedish.
"Bellissima," I responded.
Gina giggled in response.
"Ah, the Scotch is helping your attitude," I said in English.
She smiled at me. "No, its just you being here. This would really suck if I was going to be stuck by myself in Denver trying to get home to you for Christmas . . . and it helps that there are two intriguingly hot people who just sat down across from us. I know we'll never see them again, but it is better to fantasize about them than it is to sit here and feel sorry for ourselves about how screwed up this trip is." We had switched back to English, since the objects of our conversation were absent.
"Skål," I said as I held up my glass in a toast to her statement.
She laughed and responded with "Evviva," the Italian equivalent of skål or cheers in English.
"So, what makes him sexy?" I asked her.
