Terminal Girl

Shoulder-length hair resting on a wool sweater, the deep shade of brown complimenting the dark blue dye and framing her pale face. Eyes always downcast, bent intensely over a novel, while pink-tipped fingers absently slip Oreos through quiet lips. A plain white shirt with a low-cut neckline peeks between the sweater's buttons. Blue-jeaned legs, always crossed, ending in nondescript tennis shoes.

Eyes look up, mine darting away. The pale blue reflects the early morning sunlight streaming through the wall of windows overlooking acres of concrete. Unpainted nails dip into the dark blue Jansport backpack at her feet, emerging to explore a denim pocket, retrieving a stick of lip balm in a green plastic tube. Eyes now staring calmly over the terminal, watching people passing without seeing them.

She is not beautiful, at least not in a way most would recognize. While not ugly, there is nothing in her features or figure to distinguish her as remarkable. Why, then, am I drawn so powerfully to her? She now sits across the aisle from me, ever engrossed in her novel. Close enough to touch, close enough to watch, close enough to hear. She dozes for short periods, her lashes gently falling on her pale cheeks. Safe from discovery, I look on her as she sleeps, attempting to understand this mysterious, complete fascination. It does no good, only serving to foster a desire to touch that brown hair, that porcelain skin, those slender hands.

Baltimore now, the plane falls silent. The chatter of the junior highers near the plane's tail grows audible. She withdraws herself from the printed words, glances out the window nearest me. I see again the pale blue before I retreat to the cabin floor at my feet. She leaves first, I follow a dozen people behind. I can't see her in the terminal, too far behind. Hiding off-center at the baggage claim, feeling overwhelmed in this strange airport, this strange city. The air is thick here. I see her blue sweater again across the way, her arm making a V to her ear, the top of a cell phone poking through the brown strands of hair. The sign proclaiming Baggage Claim Carousels 10 and 11 hides her from view. At least, I think that's what it says. The bags come, a drab mix of dark colors. My small Concourse rolls onto the carousel. My satchel slung over my shoulder, I quickly dart in, grab it, and evacuate. The crowd hides her as I leave the area in search of a ride.

I never see her again.