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But right now I don't want to talk. My gaze lowers to her mouth again as her bubblegum pink tongue traces her lower lip, leaving behind a delicate sheen of moisture. I want to taste her.
As if reading my thoughts and needing to put a little bit of distance between us, she leans back in her seat and crosses her impossibly long legs. Though she looks confident, relaxed, I can sense a bit of nervousness in her movements and posture too.
She changes the subject and I sense that she is - or was - uncomfortable. I wonder if it was because I was looking at her mouth and being too obvious in my desire. Clearly I'm blowing things and that’s also a first for me.
For some reason I want to get this right. I don't want to mess things up or make any mistakes with her.
“So how was your trip?” she asks, her voice curious.
I'm stuck between not wanting to give away too many boring details, knowing I can’t say too much, and wanting to carry on a conversation with her. “It was good,” I say, keeping things vague. “Busy, but good.” It's not a lie. Even though negotiations didn't exactly go the way I wanted them to, the overall trip was a success.
I certainly don't want to tell her that. I spent most of my time thinking about her, wondering who she is, where she came from, what she does for a living, what her name is, and wondering if I'd ever see her again.
“What about you?” I ask. “How was your meeting?”
The second I say the words, I see walls slammed down in her eyes. She shrugs and looks away for a moment. “It was fine,” she says. “Everything went as well as it could go.”
I sense that she is uncomfortable. When she doesn't elaborate, I decide not to press her for any more details, even though I'm curious.
Maybe her trip had been something personal or something painful. Maybe something that made her sad or upset no matter what she had actually done. I don't want to dredge up those memories and have her associate them with me or our time together.
In all honesty, I want to comfort her, but I'm not sure how. We barely know each other. We only met once on a flight from New York to London. The only reason I even left an impression on her was because I was kind to her during turbulence and didn't expect anything in return. It's kind of a sad connection if I think about things honestly.
And even though I felt like we had chemistry or a spark of some kind, it wasn't enough for us to exchange numbers or names. I hadn't wanted to ask her and make her uncomfortable, and I’m glad I hadn’t. She also hadn't asked me, and now I think I know why. Not asking her her name and her number might have been the smartest decision I made that day.
Of course, now things are a bit more awkward because I do want to ask her for that information, but I don't feel that I can without her feeling like I'm expecting something from her.
We were strangers then, and we're still strangers now.
But that's odd, because it doesn't feel like that at all. No, as I sit beside her, it feels more like we're old friends. Or maybe even more than friends.
“So tell me something about yourself,” she says in a challenging tone.
“When I was younger, I thought I'd be a painter until I realized I suck at painting.”
She laughs, brushing off my response. “I don't mean something from when you were a kid.”
I doctor my expression to one of seriousness. “This was five years ago.”
She laughs, nearly spitting out the drink of water she's taking. Holding the back of her hand against her mouth, she quickly swallows the liquid, then speaks. “I'm so sorry for laughing. That's awful of me. Are you kidding?”
I shake my head. My road to success had been a very, very long one. “I never thought I was good at anything. But I liked painting, so I thought maybe I could make a career out of it. Until I realized I wasn't good at it, of course.” For some reason, I don't even mind being vulnerable like this with her.
“So from painting to tech genius. I sense there's a story in you.” She's watching me with curious, narrowed eyes, and I lift both shoulders.
“If you think about it, everybody has a story.” I don't see myself as anything special, just a guy who was in the right place at the right time and just happened to get lucky. “So why don't you tell me part of yours?” Even though the words seem aggressive, they come across soft and invitational, and the corners of her lips lift.
“I have never had a healthy romantic relationship in my entire life.”
Oof. I can't help but wonder why she's leading with that exactly. Maybe she's warning me that she's not interested in a relationship.
“Well, that makes two of us.” I have to clamp down on all the old memories that threaten to surge up and overwhelm me. Not so very long ago, I thought my life was perfect, but reality slapped me in the face and now I struggle to think back on that painful stretch of my life.
Her expression softens as she studies me. “Sometimes other people are the worst part of living.”
“I couldn't agree with you more. And sometimes we have to harden up to face the world on the world’s terms.” This is quite possibly the deepest I've ever gotten in a second conversation with a stranger.
She smiles as she speaks, as if she's loving this conversation. “But I don't need somebody in my life; I’m happy alone.”
