The first time I saw him was from across the proverbial crowded room.
The room was a gate actually, in the international terminal at JFK. I was returning to Paris on the red-eye after some meetings at a publishing company I was free-lancing for. He strode through the crowd with a quiet confidence carrying a leather satchel. Tall and striking, he had dark, curly hair swept back like he'd just been trekking on some Nepalese moutaintop. I noticed he was boarding with the first class passengers. So was I.
I next noticed him as I was settling into my seat in the forward cabin of the packed 747. He wore a tailored sport coat with faded jeans suggesting a man who valued comfort as much as quality. I watched him scan the cabin looking at the seat numbers, then looked away quickly so he wouldn't catch me staring at him. When I next looked up, he was talking to the flight attendant and gesturing in my direction.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to move my seat over there," he was saying charmingly, his dark brown eyes as sexy as any I'd seen in a while.
The next thing I knew he was walking towards me.
"Pardon me. Mind if I join you?" he asked.
His voice was deep yet playful. He had a warm, mischievous look in his eyes.
"Non, bien sur. Of course, not. Be my guest." I was flustered but trying my best not to show it.
"Merci, mademoiselle. Tu es tres gentille."
He flashed that movie star smile again, the one he used on the flight attendant. She'd granted his request for a new seat with a giddiness you don't often see among the Air France crew. He was that good looking.
As he began to put his leather bag in the overhead bin, I took in the contours of his body-his flat stomach, his tight ass. Pas mal, I thought to myself. Not bad at all. I thought about giving him a hard time for using the familiar "tu" with me but he did it with such a charming insouciance, I didn't really mind. He obviously wasn't a native French speaker. English or American, I guessed.
"Can I help stow your bag?" he asked, kindly.
I had a large shoulder bag stuffed with manuscripts by my feet. It had been too heavy for me to lift over my head. Also, I had vaguely planned to do some reading if the flight was boring and I couldn't sleep. Right now, that need felt a lot less urgent.
"Why, yes. Thank you."
I went to help him lift it - it must have weighed 20 kilos - but he handled it like it was nothing. He placed it in the overhead carefully and I found myself imagining his strong arms and rippled chest under that cotton shirt. I glanced at his crotch, it was right next to my face after all, and was pleased to see a rather nice sized bulge. No, I wouldn't be doing much reading on THIS fight.
The seats in first class were clustered in groups of two, with considerable distance between each cluster. Each was its own sel-contained pod, with room to recline the seat so it lay completely flat, for sleeping. It made for an intimate setting. Shortly after takeoff, he spoke to me again.
"Going home or away?" he asked, his voice light and friendly.
His head was laying on his pillow, facing me.
"Going home," I answered. "Business trip. And you?"
"Pleasure. Pure, unadulterated pleasure."
He said it with a roguish tone that made my heart skip a beat. I crossed my leg giving him a view of my thigh.
"Lucky you," I smiled back and for a few seconds we regarded each other contemplating the idea of pure unadulturated pleasure.
"What kind of work do you do?" he asked.
I explained I was a free lance book editor, novels mainly, a little non-fiction. I learned he was a photographer and a journalist from Colorado, and had recently done spreads for National Geographic and Outside. His name was Derek. I told him to call me Nicole.
We talked and talked, first over champagne then over dinner. I learned he had moved to Boulder from Manhattan, was divorced, and had no children. I told him I was single and lived in a loft in the 9th. As sometimes happens with total strangers, I found myself sharing little intimacies with him that I almost never share. About my job, my parents divorce, my love life. (I, too, was recently single after a long relationship.) He had a way of listening, with those big, brown eyes, that seemed to say "you're the only person in the world."
All the while, the flight attendant kept our wine glasses full. First it was champagne, then red wine with dinner, then we just HAD to try the Barolo. (He was right, it was heavenly.) By the time they cleared the dinner service, I was feeling a little tipsy.
When they turned down the cabin lights, he offered to get me a blanket. I reclined my seat fully and he laid it over me, making sure I was comfortable. He did the same for himself and turned on the gooseneck reading light so it cast a soft glow between our beds.
"Are you tired?" he asked. "Would you like to sleep?"
"Well, I AM tired," I admitted, "but I'm enjoying our conversation so much, I don't feel like sleeping."
"So am I," he smiled. "I could listen to you all night. And it's not just your charming accent."
We were laying facing each other, our faces bathed in the soft light of the reading lamp. It felt like candlelight.
"What shall we talk about?" I asked.
"Tell me more what it was like growing up in Paris."
He seemed to find me and my life endlessly fascinating. As I said, he was a great listener.
I told him about my neighborhood, the schools I went to, the summers my family and I spent at the beach. I told him about my parents, my brother Pierre, my mother's career as a fashion model, my Dad's alcoholism. Laying under my blanket, facing him, I seemed to forget where I was. We might as well been in my bed, face to face, telling each other our secrets.
"So, as a girl, did you and your family go to the beach a lot?" he asked.
"Every summer. In Vieux St. Giron. Do you know it?"
"It's near Biarritz, isn't it?"
"Oui. My family had a vacation home there. I loved it there."
"I can tell," he smiled. "Your face lights up when you talk about it. What did you love about it?"
"Oh, I don't know. Everything. The ocean. How free and easy it was."
I paused, wondering how much to tell him.
