The Scenario Project is a series of short pieces of writing written by me and a close male friend. In turn we both write follow on pieces of the story assuming the roles of the lead characters. The author is identified in the title.
Terminal 4, John F. Kennedy International Airport
Saturday, 1:30 p.m.
Amid the chaotic bustle of the arrival hall, he stands outside the exit from customs. He scans every face, looking for her, but it’s too early; her 747 should have just touched down.
Glancing in his reflection of the glass, he adjusts his jacket and stands up straight. “I hope I look okay,” he wonders. Looking back is a man of indeterminate age, six-feet tall, military haircut, sport coat, white dress shirt, black jeans and running shoes. “We’ll,” he thinks to himself, “I am what I am.”
The man’s cell phone announces an incoming text and he flips it open to read: “We just landed XXX.” His insides respond with a sudden flush of butterflies, arousal … and a touch of apprehension. He knows her so well, yet, perhaps? He tamps down his doubt.
It’s going to be a few minutes for her to work her way though the Kafkaesque thrash of baggage claim, customs and immigration. He tries to manage the anticipation with Zen-like thoughts of nature scenes and peaceful water – it isn’t working. So he distracts himself with practical matters. One more time, he reviews the folder of documents that outlines their holiday:
- Reservations for two adjoining rooms in a small hotel on West 81st Street
- Pair of tickets to the Broadway show “Wicked”
- Tickets to MoMA
There’s more, but he puts the papers away and goes back to the Zen space. It’s better now. Time passes. He’s feeling the effects of the six hour flight from San Francisco, but he know her eight hours from Heathrow (not counting the train ride), has got to be rough. That, and her body clock says it’s 6:30 p.m. The joys of international travel – it’s a fuzzy blur.
The sound level in the hall goes up a notch as Customs disgorges a new wave of passengers. He scans the crowd.
And there she is, with her radiant smile. His heart races.
They run to each other, but stop, their spheres of personal space just ever so slightly overlapping.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she said.
He steps inside her sphere, and with his finger, gently draws her crimson lips close.
Their lips touch, tentatively. A little kiss; a peck.
They look at each other and kiss again.
Lips part, tongues dance.
He runs his fingers through her hair as their bodies embrace.
They alone, together; anticipation, heated by their touch, becomes passion.
They come up for air and look into each other’s eyes, smiling.
The lovers look around to see if they’re making a scene, but apparently nobody even notices them. Good.
“Let’s do that again,” he says.
They embrace again, this time more slowly and sultry.
He takes his hand and subtly, gently, cups her breast. He imagines he can feel her nipple hardening through the clothing.
“I knew you were going to do that,” she says. And they both laugh.
He picks up her suitcase, and offers her his arm.
“Let’s grab a taxi,” he says.
And arm in arm, the lovers stroll out towards the mid-day New York sun.
1st May 2010 3.19am