There’s a dashingly handsome man standing at the front of the plane. Mostly, he looks out at us with his strong jawline and professional aura. A female flight attendant a full head taller than him, with sleek blond hair and a model-like demeanor, walks past him, and his conventional attractiveness diminishes somewhat. It makes me wonder if he is secure in his shortness. Does it make him feel inferior, more insecure, or does it make him more mature, more grounded? I think the former.
One of the baggage handlers is a beautiful woman with long dark hair and almost no makeup. She wears the bright neon green vest of someone who does physical labor as part of her job. Each time she comes over, she stands next to him and tries to make conversation. I see her looking at him, eyes curious, trying to engage him. He stands looking forward, a picture of professionalism. After a few quick sidelong glances, she moves away, presumably to fiddle with some suitcases and pass away the time. When she leaves, he looks over. I see his eyes move up and down, before he turns back. Then he looks again. It’s as if he was too nervous to speak to her, instead trying to cut an impressive figure. Classic high school mistake. She feels a little rejected, and he feels frustrated from his position of aloofness.
I see them now at the front. He cannot keep his eyes off of her. There’s a softness to his eyes that I can see from all the way back here. I wonder if they met today, or if this is his regular route. Perhaps he looks forward to when his plane will dock in Madrid, knowing a certain ground crew worker will quicken his heartbeat. Perhaps in his mind, he has an elaborate plan of slow wooing, fear convincing him that its more romantic this way. It’s possible one of them is a relationship, making these meetings bittersweet. Maybe this morning he spent an extra few minutes in the mirror, making the lines of his beard sharp and commanding.
There he is, showing us how to use the seatbelts and airbags, a deadened expression on his face. He isn’t here. His body is wearing a bright yellow vest, his eyes almost rolling with the banality of it all. But his mind is still on the ground, trying to figure out how to summon the courage to speak to this girl who passes by so closely. A hands breath away, yet the whole sky may as well be between them. Her grounded, him drifting.
How many hours until the next sweet interaction? Will he finally break free from his dignified shell and laugh with her? Or will he continue to ignore her, using a sheen of professionalism to protect himself? And isn’t this what women find attractive? A man of mystery, full of silent, important thoughts? What would she think if she knew his true thoughts? Would she be disgusted, indignant, affronted? Or would the lines of her face soften? Would she put a caring hand on his shoulder, and lean in to kiss the soft lips above his sharp jawline?
His eyes closed for a second, deep in thought. His distinguished jaw flexed. And for a second, he wasn’t in a metal tube wearing a yellow vest, pantomiming unnecessary instructions to an utterly disengaged audience. He was standing on the ground. Wind, real wind, blowing through his dark hair. His arms around the girl next to the suitcases, feeling the softness and the hardness and the delicate beauty of the world.
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