It was six in the morning, a Tuesday in October. Elizabeth was in Phoenix, Arizona but it could have been anywhere. There was no hint of searing desert heat, no warm glow of sunshine here. Only pale early morning light was coming through the curtains. The room was like many others she'd been in, in cities all over the world. A single bed she'd sleep in once, a closet that'd hold only her uniform, a coffee machine she'd not use, a TV she'd not watch. The air conditioner blew sterile air through the room which Elizabeth felt irritate her skin. She sat on the edge of the bed, turned to the mirror, peered into her own hazel eyes and asked herself what she saw. The eyes were tired, they were jaded but still there was a fire lingering behind them. Elizabeth looked at herself the way a man might. She often did this. Elizabeth saw a woman whose firm olive skin covered a well honed body. A woman whose long raven hair stretched down past her shoulder blades. A woman whose small, delicate features were framed by a proud Mexican jaw line. She saw there were bags under her eyes right now, a few lines around the mouth. A few veins crept through to blemish the skin round her cheekbones. Her breasts sagged slightly. Was Elizabeth still attractive? She took a breast in the palm of each hand and pushed them up, Elizabeth pouted slightly, as if to seduce herself. She stood up, admiring her flat tummy, shapely thighs and the finely cropped triangle of hair between her legs. Would a man still want this? Elizabeth twirled round, peered at herself over her shoulder, and ran her hand over her ass. She knew men did. Elizabeth saw it everyday, she saw and felt the eyes of men on her. Elizabeth heard the desire in their voices while she served them. Elizabeth was satisfied with herself.
Now, it was 6.09. Time to shower, to clean herself up and moisturise, brush teeth and select underwear. Within two hours she would need to done the uniform and be at work.
*****
It was ten in the morning and he was running. He cursed the Arizona sun, he cursed the alarm on his watch. He cursed the fact that there was sweat dripping down his back already, adding to the stink he'd accrued yesterday without getting a chance to wash off. He cursed the amount he'd drunk last night and he cursed the fact that he was going to miss his plane. He was still cursing when he got to the side of the main road.
"Fucking taxi!"
A straight laced, Christian looking woman of 70 glared at this apparition of unkemptness and foul language. He was tall, 6'3, with baby blue eyes, skin stained deep brown and hair bleached hazelnut by a harsh American sun it wasn't used to. He wore a torn red t-shirt, torn blue jeans and lugged a big blue rucksack which clearly dug into his shoulder. He spoke with a strange accent and waved his hand in the air like a madman.
"Taxi! Fucking taxi! Stupid fucking city fucking bitch fucking country." He paused for breath.
"Are you from Italy?" She enquired. The man looked at her with a mixture of desperation, shock and annoyance, still panting from his run.
"It….Italy? No love. I'm not from Italy."
"Well wherever you're from, please moderate your language."
He looked at her, half trying to remember his manners and half happy to kill her. He swallowed the expletive that was sitting on his tongue waiting to pounce and rethought his words. Before he could reply, he spotted a yellow shape heading down the street at speed in the corner of his eye.
"TAAAAAAAAAXXXXIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII! Stop you bastard!"
No sooner had the car stopped, he'd piled into the back seat and was barking instructions at the driver.
"Fucking airport."
"What terminal you want son?"
"Fucking three."
"Right you are."
The journey was swift, it seemed no sooner had he gotten into the car, caught his breath and watched the city pass by him at speed that they were there at the airport and he was paying the driver, attaching the bag to his back again and charging into the concourse. His heart leapt with joy when he saw the Aero Mexico desk and it leaped further when he realised they were still checking in passengers for Flight 180. He sidestepped a luggage trolley and swerved round a group of nuns. In one smooth movement he managed to fish his passport and ticket from his bag, dump it on the conveyor and hand his documents to the staff. He mumbled quick yeses to their questions, he'd packed his own bag, was carrying no blades and no bombs. Quickly through emigration, through the departure lounge, a quick swig of water at a fountain and he was at Gate 4, presenting his boarding pass.
*****
Elizabeth was on automatic pilot. She was tearing the stub off boarding passes and greeting passengers with her face permanently beaming at all comers, all the while resplendent in her Aero Mexico uniform. The final passenger in line arrived and suddenly her brain switched onto a different track. Most of the passengers on this Tuesday morning flight were a familiar sort. Chubby Mexican businessmen, middle aged Americans in flowery shirts, a few nuns. This man was quite different, his hair was cut short but still a tangled, hazel mess. His skin was stained with a little too much sun and two days of stubble covered his jaw. Maybe the sun had got to this one, he was breathing heavily, his eyes had a desperate look. But what eyes! Blue and piercing. The jaw was firm and square. He was tall, his body long and firm. Torn jeans, torn t-shirt and a feint odour of sweat breezed past her nostrils as she took his boarding pass and he entered the plane. Her eyes followed him hungrily, looking at the fine legs and shapely tight ass inside those tatty jeans. Oh, to get that man into a suit! Groomed, dressed well, how good would he look? Mariella, the little blonde hostess working alongside her grinned at Elizabeth, they turned to follow the passengers onto the plane, Mariella had seen Elizabeth's hungry look. She whispered in Elizabeth ear;
"You're looking to rob from the cradle Mother Hen?" Marriela was 21. Her comment hadn't been meant kindly. Elizabeth turned to glare at her, Marriella just gave her the same plastic smile. Elizabeth knew what it said, "Why would a boy like that ever look at you?"
*****
He collapsed into the seat gratefully. He wasn't going to read, he wasn't going to nap or do anything. He just wanted to sit there, catch his breath and look around at his leisure, thankful for making the plane in time. He gazed around the cabin, some businessmen, tourists, screaming kids and some nuns. The usual suspects. He looked ahead, at the air hostesses. One was petite and bottle blonde, quite cute in her little air hostess outfit. A plastic theme park smile was painted on her lips and she was directing it and her chirpy "How are you's" and "Ola's" "around the cabin as if she was spraying chemicals. The girl beamed across at him from the far side of the cabin, he was glad to've attracted her attention from so far away. Her eyes left him and he followed them to a few rows in front, where the other hostess seemed to be glaring back at her. He recognised her, she'd taken his boarding pass and their eyes had met briefly. As he looked at this woman, he felt a warm river pour over his limbs. A warmth which took the breath from his mouth and tingled through his bones. This woman was tall, dark and bewitching. And real. She moved with intuitive grace. He could feel her fiery temper like it was being transmitted through the air. She was the most profoundly sexual thing he'd seen in months. He was transfixed, her eyes moved toward him again, their gazes were locked and they both knew. They both knew the fire that was being stoked in the other. A second is all it takes.
She broke the look first, she was meant to be working. He couldn't help himself, he had to drink her in. It was a full minute before he realised his cock had lengthened, thickened and was stiff inside his pants. It was two minutes before he realised the blonde hostess was giving him stunned, dirty looks whenever she'd the chance.
They took off, Flight 180 from bland, parched Phoenix to Mexico City.
He continued to watch the strange game the two women were playing. A smile, then a filthy look from the blonde. Then a filthy look and a panther like glare from the darker woman.
It came time for the in-flight meal. Thankfully, Praise be, hallelujah, it was the darker woman approaching him. He felt dizzy with lust. He placed his paperback across his lap, hiding the excited girth coiled in his jeans.
"Some lunch sir? We have pastrami sandwich or a coleslaw salad."
"Ahem, the salad I think."
Her eyes avoided his, they didn't look at each other once. His eyes followed the tray of food she placed in front of him and watched her move onto the next row. He looked down at the airline freeze dried meal. A plastic dish of salad, bread roll, yoghurt, a small chocolate, and a napkin…with something scrawled on it. He opened the napkin out. Scrawled there, in thin black ink, was a message.
5.35. Tonight. The bar of the Hotel Uruguay.
My name is Elizabeth.
*****
He had not made a hotel reservation in Mexico City. When he'd found a taxi, the words "Hotel Uruguay" passed his lips without him even have to think about it. The driver nodded, and said nothing for the duration of the journey, understanding that his passenger probably wanted to spend a little time thinking.
He glanced at the streets, it was 1 in the afternoon. The air was hot and thick. The airport was right in the middle of the city. Jets swooped low over houses. The streets were filthy, pavements covered with food, dirt, rubbish, the stuff of life. Paint peeled on walls, strange films were advertised on gaudy billboards. Fiery colours, red, purple and orange flamed everywhere. Mexico City is a place where an inferno seems ready to break out at any moment.
They arrived at the hotel, he checked the meter and slowly counted out the pesos for the taxi driver. He pulled the heavy bag onto his back and hopped out.
The Hotel Uruguay was an old place, he guessed that it must be a 3 star, just about in his price range. The walls were a tired, chipped white. He strolled inside, onto a marble floor, potted plants everywhere. Clearly a terribly classy establishment in it's day, it retained a lot of understated grandeur. He checked in, asking for two nights. He allowed a wrinkly old bellboy of 70 take his bag, he tipped him generously and collapsed onto the bed.
He showered at 4, after a long cat nap and a read of his paperback. In the book, poor old James Bond was struggling to figure out a plot to destroy London which any reader would've twigged fifty pages before. The room was simple. One desk, one TV, one bed, a coffee machine and a bathroom. He stood, dripping onto the floor and onto the towel round his waist. He looked at himself in the mirror, imagining how a woman might see him. He looked good fresh from a shower, who didn't? Beads of water ran down his skin, getting trapped in his chest hair. His hair was wet and combed back. He looked good. 6 months of hard work outdoors had given a tough, strong edge to his angular features. What would Elizabeth see? A scruffy field worker? No. He'd make sure he didn't look out of place next to a woman of her quality. He shaved, ran his hand over the soft skin round his jaw, satisfied that he was starting to look respectable. He chose a powder blue, button down shirt from his bag. The only shirt he owned which wasn't a tee. He pulled on a pair of black boxers, khaki trousers, his battered boots would have to do. He combed his hair back once more and looked himself over once more. He was ready. It was half past five.
He allowed the door to close softly behind him and heard the deadlock click. He strolled down the corridor and into the old fashioned little elevator. Opening the steel gates when at the ground floor he strolled through the lobby and gazed through the glass door into the bar. She was waiting for him. She looked ravishing. She wore a little black dress which slunk to just above the knee on her shapely leg. She sat at a table caressing the bulb of a champagne goblet, her far away eyes gazing into space. She only saw him when he pushed open the glass door and walked toward her. He saw her eyes widen and a smile fill her face as she saw him.
"May I?" he gestured toward the vacant seat.
"Of course. It's for you."
