Authors: Gina Elle
I was, for the first time in at least eighteen years, biting my fingernails. And scratching my head. But not at the same time. I self-check . . . how am I feeling? Foolish. Immature. Playful. But above all, very, very excited. Though I have to do everything not to look it. Play it cool, I remind myself. Breathe. Look busy. Don’t stare.
She opens the note and reads it. As quick as day, she looks underneath her left shoe. Then, slowly, she shyly turns to her right and shifts around to look behind her. She glances at the seat numbers indicated on the panels above. And then we lock eyes. At first, she grins at me, which magically turns into a mega watt smile. We lock eyes. Just like that, I smile the widest, brightest smile I am capable of. My insides turn to mush.
I am gone
! Then, I watch her as she bends down and reaches into her bag and pulls out a tissue. With her left leg now propped at a 90-degree angle over her right knee, she starts to pick at the wad of gum beneath her shoe. She pulls and tugs at it a bit in order to peel it all off in one piece. I don’t take my eyes off the operation.
Success. The big pink blob of gum no longer taints the sole of her shoe. She folds the tissue containing the gum up a few times and looks around for somewhere to toss it. She settles on putting it in the empty water glass sitting in the wall envelope in front of her. Again, she reaches back down into her bag. I watch as her body moves towards the left side of her seat as if she is leaning to look out the window. I lose sight of the right side of her body completely. Shit. What’s she doing?
The captain comes on the speaker asking flight attendants to prepare the cabin for final descent into Toronto. As I am packing away my iPad, I note the time and realize that I still haven’t filled out the Canadian Customs card. With the click of my pen, I fill in all of the familiar lines and spaces . . . name, address, passport number, country of birth, and declaration of goods. As I am signing my name on the signature line of the card, Deb taps me on the shoulder. With a smirk on her face and a twinkle in her eye, she passes me a folded up note.
I glance over at Sweet Caroline. She is removing the ear buds from her ears and twirling the cord around her hand and not looking back. Is that a good sign, I wonder? Or maybe a bad one if the note is basically telling me to get lost. With sweaty palms and a shortness of breath, I give a nod to Deb thanking her for the note. Words, at this moment, aren’t going to work for me. Which is ironic because all my life words have never really deserted me. In fact, I’ve been complimented many times on how articulate and
artfully
conversational I am. You have
a way with words
, my teachers used to tell me. I have
an impressive vocabulary
, an old girlfriend once noted on our first date. Or, maybe everyone was just trying to tell me that I talk too much? It’s true, I do admit, I love words, playing with words and learning new words, which may explain why I love song lyrics so much. Minimal words expressing truths to music. Poetry to my ears. I can spend hours online reading song lyrics to all sorts of genres of music. I think it’s nothing short of genius the way a songwriter chooses the words they do to make a melodic masterpiece. The Beatles, U2, Jay-Z all up there with the likes of Shakespeare and Dickens, in my books. Now, back to words on this page. Sweet Caroline’s note.
Like a little boy opening his gifts on Christmas morning, I unfold the note as fast I can. My note to her is written on the top of the page. I re-read that first.
Hi there passenger in Seat 1B,
Just wanted to let you know that you have the hugest wad of gum stuck on the bottom of your left shoe.
Yours truly,
Fellow Passenger in 3D
And now, her response.
To the very observant passenger seated in 3D,
Thank you for helping me to avoid a very sticky situation. What keen observation skills you have.
Recently unstuck passenger in 1B
What a witty reply. I reread it at least forty-eight more times. I fold the note carefully and tuck it in the right inside breast pocket of my jacket smiling the whole time. I turn and look out the window as the plane makes a rather fast descent. With a few bumps on the runway, the aircraft has landed. The brakes start screeching to a halt and we are all pushed back into our seats. Within no time, the aircraft arrives at the gate. The unclicking of seat belts can be heard throughout the cabin as soon as the captain removes the fasten seat belt signs. And throughout it all, Sweet Caroline has not looked back once.
In the first class cabin, we all rise out of our seats and prepare our bags and belongings for departure. With all of the activity around us, I can barely see Sweet Caroline. As soon as one of the attendants releases the latch on the aircraft door, Sweet Caroline is out the door. No looking back. Just like that.
Gone
. I am crushed.
A couple of passengers leave right after her. I am stuck in the aisle behind a woman who is struggling with her stubborn carryon bag that refuses to stand on its own wheels. In an effort to balance the bag, she tosses the bag first towards the right and then towards the left. I offer to help her but she gives me hands-off-my-stuff vibe so I retreat. After what feels like a millennium, I’m set free.
With a sincere thank you and a quick wink to my gal Deb who is standing at the doorway of the airplane, I step off the plane and begin the long walk through the terminal. Feeling shrunken and disappointed, I must say. So close yet so far from meeting Sweet Caroline. I try to analyze what went wrong. Maybe we were ill- fated from the start since our seats were so far away from one another? Maybe she is in a relationship and didn’t take my bait? Maybe she didn’t find me attractive? Maybe I should have acted more my age and just gone up to her and started talking to her? Whatever. She is gone.
Climbing up the gangway I pull out my iPhone to check for texts and emails. There’s an email with an alert from Cate, sent only a minute ago. With no reason given, the 2:30 P.M. meeting has been postponed until 9:00 A.M. tomorrow morning. I reply to the email confirming receipt. This is the best news I’ve gotten all day. Now I can skip going in to the office and
can work from home. I’m not in the mood to be working with others today. As I hit the send button to reply to her email, someone touching my arm sidelines me. I look up from my iPhone and towards the right. It’s Sweet Caroline!
“I thought I’d wait up for the passenger in 3D,” she says and the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen lights up her face.
Holy shit
! She waited for me.
“After all,” she continues demurely, “he did save me and the entire aircraft from a potentially delayed deplaning experience.”
Wow. What a beautifully constructed, intelligent sentence. This is a woman with a brain and looks. Yum. And a girl who has a way with words . . . when I can’t seem to find any. I’m speechless. I simply smile.
“Glad I could help,” is all I can manage.
What the hell was that
? Glad I could help? Lame, very lame.
Sweet Caroline or should I call her Princess Caroline takes her place beside me and we begin walking side by side through the terminal. She walks with the elegance of a royal; head held high, with a humble yet self-confident poise about her. Beside her, I feel taller. Maybe that’s because I’m actually floating on cloud nine right now.
“Are you here in Toronto on business?” she turns to ask me while checking out my business attire: navy suit, white shirt, and navy tie. Standard stuff. Why do I feel so nervous with her watching me? Is there drool dripping down my chin? Do I have a coffee stain on my suit jacket? I know I’m scratching my head right now.
“Actually, I am returning from a business trip. Toronto is home for me,” I clarify. “What about you? Are you here on business?” I ask her in return even though I think I already know the answer. I hope.
“The same with me. I was in Chicago on a three-day conference. It’s an annual thing.” A Torontonian! My heart clenches. All my hopes and dreams have just come true.
I glance over at her beside me. Standing about three or four inches shorter than my six feet, she has long legs and a slim body. She has slender arms that can be easily wrapped in my own. Her straight long light brown hair matches my head of dark brown. In fact, all of her fairer features would perfectly compliment my darker Mediterranean ones. I am captivated by her flawless complexion. Wearing minimal makeup
; dark mascara on her lashes, some light blush on her cheeks and the remnants of some lip-gloss on her full, sensuous lips,
I am gone
. I wonder how old she is. My estimated guess would be in her mid to late 20s, but not because she looks it, rather, she sounds it, mature and very well spoken. She strikes me as someone who has had some life experience. We walk in unison, unfortunately, approaching the Canada Customs line up way too soon.
“So, are you expec
ted back at the office today?” she asks. She understands the art of conversation.
“That’s where I was heading but then my secretary emailed me minutes ago letting me know that my 2:30 P.M. meeting has been postponed until tomorrow morning. I think I’ll play some hooky and head home for the rest of the day. What about yourself?”
“Umm . . . yes.” She hesitates, “I’m . . . heading home as well,” she says pausing between words, like she isn’t sure.
“What part of Toronto do you call home?” I ask as we take our place in the Canada Customs line up. I am so interested in this answer, I block out all the noises and sounds around me.
“Umm . . . I live in the west end . . . ummm . . . in the Bloor West area,” she stalls again with her answer. Is she afraid to tell me? Worried that I might
stalk
her? Out of fear of scaring her away, I back off from asking further questions. But, Bloor West Village is practically in my backyard. I live about 6 or 7 kilometers east of there in Toronto’s Yorkville area. So, I decide to take that as a sign. We were meant to be together. Then again, I’d take anything as a sign. I want her that bad.
“Whereabouts do you live?” she asks me in return. Seems more comfortable asking rather than answering questions.
“I live in Yorkville.” I get a flash of inspiration. I hope to hell it works.
“If you’re heading home and so am I, would you like to share a cab?” I ask as casually and coolly as I can while crossing my fingers inside my pant pockets for good luck.
How old am I again
?
“After all,” I say, “we’re practically neighbors,” I add. She giggles an adorable laugh. I hold my breath waiting for her reply.
She pauses for a brief second, but what feels like an hour to me. She glances at her watch.
Please say yes; please say yes
, I pray inwardly to this goddess in front of me.
“Sure. That sounds like a great idea,” she replies.
I hear the trumpets from Neil’s song blaring in my ears. Our turn approaches and Mr. I-Look-Tough-But-Really-Am-Not-Immigration-Officer summons one of us to his desk.
“After you, please,” I politely extend my hand to direct Sweet Caroline towards the officer. Pulling her metallic-tinted hard shell carry on luggage behind her and perching her leather tan tote bag on her inner right arm, she walks towards the officer’s desk handing her documents over to him. I watch the young officer as he looks at Sweet Caroline. I can see
him studying her face and asking her many questions, probably to keep her there longer than she needs to be. He has an extremely attractive traveller giving him all of her attention, why wouldn’t he stall her with flirtatious questions? She probably gets a lot of male attention.
Once the officer dismisses h
er, he invites me forward. I complete the drill: hand him my documents, tell him I purchased nothing in the U.S. over the past three days, explain why I was travelling, and wish him a nice day. That took all of ninety seconds.
I join Sweet Caroline and together we head towards the exit doors. I love walking beside her, being seen with her, brushing her shoulder with my arm.
I have it bad
.
Once outside, the bright early afternoon sun greets us. Quickly, I hail an airport limo from the dozens parked waiting for a fare. Our driver takes each of our carry on bags and places them in the trunk of the car. I run to open the back door of the car and wait while she climbs in first. I follow her in and take a seat beside her. I can’t believe I am sitting in a cab next to my dream girl. In some other life, I must have been very, very good to deserve this.
“Where to?” the driver asks.
“You can drop me off at Bloor and Runnymede, please,” she answers even before I get the chance to ask her where she lives.
“Would you mind dropping her off at Bloor and Runnymede first and then me off in Yorkville, please?’ I ask the driver. On the radio I hear the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive” classic 70s disco hit. I somehow manage to contain all of my excitement at this moment. Sweet Caroline seated on my left and the BeeGees in my ears. Heaven. The cabbie taps his meter, presses a few buttons and then nods his head. Off we go leaving Lester B. Pearson International Airport behind us.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name?” I turn and ask her with a straight face
. I am such a shit
.