Behind finger-painted smudges of deep, rosy violet, fiery clouds nestled the sun in its fading glory, a blood red star that fought long and hard to be seen as the horizon slowly swallowed it whole. Its universal warmth could not win, and sitting from my seat by the small oval window I wordlessly said goodbye to the day and welcomed the night. I watched every second of the sunset. Cherished it even. Then as all my flights go, I was to be interrupted by the clutter of sound around me. Cell phones rang. A business man had a loud coughing fit two rows up. The popping and shutting of compartment doors. My moment that separated my consciousness from the bustle of nearby passengers was gone and already missed as I stared ahead at the seat in front of me in silent despair.
"Ladies and gentlemen," announced a perky, plastic voice. Her smile was tight and no amount of makeup could hide the dark circles pooling under her eyes. The color of her hair was an unnatural shade of blonde bordering a translucent white. I was being judgmental, of course, of the flight stewardess who was simply doing her job.
All the same I get cranky when I'm told what to do. So childish sometimes.
"Please turn off all electronic devices…" she continued, prattling on about safety and our much anticipated departure.
Out the window, my attention admired blue hues that washed the sky like incoming ocean waves. The evening was setting itself up in the atmosphere and I was well beyond prepared. Between my fingers I felt my little savior, a rounded sleeping pill that would shrink my hours in the air to mere moments. As soon as we were off the ground, my slumber would begin. I awaited it almost giddily, choosing to let the minutes pass with my eyes closed shut and head resting back.
The plane slowly started to move down the runway, the humming of its efforts causing my chair to vibrate. I allowed myself to smile subtly at the progress, at the fact that soon I could put Europe behind me and return to familiar soil, to a familiar face that I missed dearly.
"Good evening."
A close voice stirred me back to the present moment. Gentle, but direct. My lids fluttered to see a man lower himself beside me, our seats jostling as he fell into one.
"Hello," I replied.
Immediately, as my eyes fell on him I recognized that the stranger was unconventionally attractive. Dressed in a navy patterned suit that was tailored to his trim frame sat a middle-aged man with smooth skin and burnt ocher eyes. Chiseled, his face was reminiscent of the statues of Ancient Greece, all defined cheek bones and carved lips. Maybe it was the way his hair was parted and neatly combed back. I don't know. Pick a feature. Too handsome, too put together to be real.
"I apologize if I awoke you from your sleep," he said politely. "But it appears that you have lost something."
Resting in the palm of his hand was my sleeping aid. My lips frowned and I took the pill back with a quiet thanks.
"Can't lose this," I added.
"Perhaps you will not need it."
An understated smile spread across my face as I shook my head.
"Oh, no. I definitely will. I'm an inconsistent sleeper when it comes to planes."
The man nodded at my words, but as he looked at me again a quizzical expression ghosted his face.
"I apologize," he then said quietly, "but have we met before?"
After I scanned him again, I determined that we hadn't. What was obvious about the man was that he wasn't American, at least not by birth. It was his voice that suggested so, not too overbearing yet clearly accented by some form of European heritage, from where I had no idea. The more he spoke, the more exotic he became.
"Your face is very familiar to me," the man continued. "If my memory serves me well, then I have seen it recently. If you don't mind me asking, what brought you to London?"
"Not London," I answered. "I was at a conference in Geneva."
It was so small, but I saw emotion race across his eyes like a flicker of firelight. I would even say I saw the man lean closer me, not much, maybe by an inch. Inside I was bracing myself for whatever he was going to tell me, as if this stranger was about to divulge some wicked truth, yet as his mouth opened to speak again he was interrupted by our stewardess.
"Excuse me, sir?" she piped in with a tone that left no room for excuses. "Would you mind attaching your seat belt? We're about to leave the runway."
For a moment, the man simply looked at her with a vacant expression. Then, as if remembering she had said anything in the first place, he offered a slight, close-lipped smile.
"Of course," he replied, his focus abandoning her as he did what she asked.
The plane began picking up speed, the body shaking as we gained power for flight. My eyes closed at the feeling, at the increasing rate that was like an excited pulse of the heart. It built, and built, and built until, hallelujah, the wheels touched nothing but air. Gravity tugged at my skin. We were air born, free as birds. I couldn't help but allow happiness to fill me, to make a smile reappear on my face at the feeling of no longer being tied down to earth, to be heading somewhere I wanted to be for a change. To go home.
As our plane leveled and the sound of the seatbelt sign chimed, I could hear the other passengers around me moving about and turning their electronics back on. I rejoined the real world, and unfortunately the first thing I saw was a pair of sober eyes looking back at me, a small trace of amusement alit within them.
Without saying anything, much to my inner gratitude, the stranger beside me turned away and unclasped his seatbelt buckle. He then rose to open one of the overhead compartments.
"I believe," he then began calmly, "that before we were interrupted, we were discussing where I had possibly seen you before."
"The conference," I prompted.
"Yes, 'Understanding the Complexities of Trauma within the Human Life'."
The man returned to his seat with a leather brief case in hand. Upon seeing my confused expression, he clarified.
"I was very interested in attending myself," he said. "But as it was, Italy was already calling my name."
So he is a psychiatrist or doctor, I thought. His clothes screamed it after all, the freedom of higher up professionalism that permitted peculiar suits and the celebrated respect to back them up. One could've argued that he batted for the business world, or maybe law, but his words regarding the conference disqualified both. Mental health it is.
"Both are beautiful places," I said. "What part of Italy?"
"All over, but most of my time was spent in Florence."
If eyes truly are the windows to a person's soul, I decided then that his were the blacked out windows of an abandoned mansion. Depending on how the light hit them, his irises seemed to change color, going from a reddened brown to a brooding black with the turn of the head. They were both lifeless and enigmatic, vacant yet alluring.
I watched as the man retrieved from his brief case a piece of paper, several drawing pencils, and a kneaded eraser. He proceeded to sketch using the foldable table that was attached to the seats in front of us.
Then, without neglecting his drawing, he asked, "Do you specialize in the field of trauma?"
A few seconds passed as I observed him work. The foreigner had an appealing profile.
"I do," I answered. "May I have a piece of paper?"
His pencil stopped. A pause.
"Of course," he said. From his case, he retrieved another piece and held it out for me to take. I accepted it, our fingers brushing.
"Thank you," I replied while digging in my own bag at my feet. From it, I pulled out a blue ink pen.
During the next ten minutes or so we said nothing, both of us too engrossed in our sketches for conversation. If I was aware of anything it would be how different our techniques sounded. His strokes were quiet, concise, and short in length to make what I assumed to be a thoughtful, planned picture. Mine, however, were definitely not. Hard, quick, and flaked about without much thought, a scrawl of flippant lines were building together on my page to hopefully make my desired image come to life.
My pen was adding more detail when the stranger beside me decided to speak again. With the same cordial tone, the man asked, "Are you going to take your sleeping pill?"
The question skipped across my mind for a second. My shoulders shrugged. I hadn't realized that I completely forgot about the aid.
"Mm, maybe," I replied. "I still have about half an hour to determine that. Do you normally socialize on plane rides?"
"On the rare occasion with the right company. Typically, I am alone on them. This, however, is a welcomed change."
"I'm glad."
"Do you keep to yourself on plane rides?"
"Yes."
"I hope I am not disturbing you then."
"Don't worry. You're just the right amount of people so far."
The man's pencil stopped moving again, causing me to glance from my paper to gaze upon his work. To my great surprise, the drawing he had begun was absolutely extravagant. An architectural masterpiece was neatly started on his page, the lines and contrast executed flawlessly and with so much detail. What appeared to be an immaculate cathedral was carefully taking shape, its terraces half-shaded and its steps sharp. Behind it were the identifying lines of a city's horizon, the other buildings forming into an urban dream. It was startling that he was able to complete so much in so little time.
"All from memory?" I offered, my eyes brightening.
The man nodded, and though I'm pretty sure he was attempting to hide it, a small swell of pride touched his features.
"It's all I have to go by," he said. "I am not one to take photographs."
"It is very beautiful," I said earnestly. "And yet, you don't know where you've seen me."
"I will in due time. We have several hours after all. May I?"
I leaned back as he leaned closer, our shoulders rubbing slightly as he peered over my table. Being as I am, wary and over intrinsic, every detail of his proximity filtered through my mind in rapid fire. The stitching of his suit jacket. The coloration of his mouth. His clean scent that was practically wafting in the air, I was keenly aware of it all. A few seconds, that's all it took for me to size him up again, to try and picture the man for who he was, to gather the evidence and evade any form of getting close.
Keep safe. Know everyone to their atoms.
On the outside, I made it seem that nothing was wrong and simply allowed him to look at my sketch. It was a portrait of him, or at least the beginning shades and lines of the man's attractive face. I watched him closely as he looked it over, a smile teasing at his own lips.
"You compliment me too much," he said as he sat up.
"You're easy to compliment."
"In that case," he began in a hushed voice. "I am called to reveal one of my fatal flaws to you."
At first, I believed the man was being serious. Wait, let me rephrase that: For a second I loathed that the man was being serious. I listen to "fatal flaws" for a living, some uncomfortable, most intimate. To hear one from an absolute stranger at this point in my journey home was an unpleasant thought. I quickly studied his face again, and upon seeing another one of his faint smiles tugging slightly at his mouth, I slowly relaxed.
"Confess your sins," I said with a wave of my hand.
Amusement graced him momentarily before he continued.
"I," he stated, "am a person who enjoys getting to know whomever I have the pleasure of having in my company for extended periods of time."
"Say it isn't so."
"I know. A grave triste I am cursed with. In this case, madam, it would be you this evening. Also, I must take in consideration that I cannot recall where I have seen you before. Please tell me your name."
I hesitated, something I always do when first introduced to new company. Despite the years of therapy and knowing oneself, meeting people can sometimes be hard for me, especially when said individuals are as intimidating as my fellow traveler. Not to say that he was meaning to be intimidating. This man had been polite, courteous, and with enough personality to be playful, but not intrusive. I suppose I was still getting used to how put together he came off. I don't know. My hesitation was only a split-second pause before I chose to give the man what he wanted.
"Ada," I replied. "Ada Ives."
There it was again, that tiny sparkle of life that flit momentarily in the blackened windows. I barely caught it. He chose to reach down to his brief case again and rifle through its contents. The man then pulled out the latest copy of the Journal of Abnormal Psychiatry, its cover worn and weathered. Frowning, I recognized the issue and already knew what page he was going to search for. His fingers began flicking through the Journal and sure enough, a featurette of my face was gracing the article the man stopped on.
"And the mystery is solved," he declared. "I enjoyed your article on tactile bonding very much."
"It was fun to write."
He glanced to the side, thinking.
"Strange, not many would use the word 'fun' when describing the topic of bonding," he said.
"Oh yes, especially those who have a hard time doing it. No new news there."
"Adults, I can better handle, but your work with children and adolescents sounds…challenging."
My shoulders shrugged off his comment after having so many similar conversations over and over again throughout the years. The bottom line was that some people like kids and some don't. I get it. To be listening to the needs of adults sounded lousy to me while others are paralyzed at the thought of talking to a five year old. At least with children and teenagers the emotions are rawer and less controlled at times. Teenagers can be a tad bit more tricky, however.
"People are challenging and I like a challenge," I said. "So I suppose in the end it works out. What happens during our years as children shapes us into what we become, and I get them in my office when the wounds are fresh."
"That is true. The early years of human life are crucial to development. I am curious. In your opinion, how exposed do you believe children really are to the world?" he asked.
"Enough. I mean, there's TV, movies, music, etcetera. Parents, good and bad. Religion. Whatever their friends say or do, or claim to do. I see kids as little fish swimming around in the ocean. It's way too big for them to handle, and without some form of positive relationship they don't have a chance."
"That is true for some," he said after a short pause. "But there are solitary fish in the sea as well. What do you make of them?"
Our proximity had shrank, I noticed, since our conversation made a slight turn to our current topic. The stranger appeared entranced in hearing whatever answer I had, as if he had a special interest.
"I guess the question is," I stated slowly, "Do you they want to be alone?"
His eyes looked away from mine when I finished. The man was no longer smiling, but appeared distant, as if he was lost in thought. For the sake of the mood, I chose to change the subject.
"I must tell you, I have a fatal flaw, too," I whispered.
At my last statement, his focus snapped back to me. What little emotions the stranger chose to express, they all fled from him. As the night had crept through, the aisle lights were shut off and only a few bulbs were lit over scattered seats. The shadows of the cabin darkened his eyes and sharpened his other features. Somehow, the man in the patterned navy suit became more intimidating in one single second. Somehow, I was able to press on with those intense eyes of his burning holes into my skull.
"I don't know you, sir," I said in mock sternness. "What I can tell about you is that you're a psychiatrist, but you let me in on that one. Despite learning who I am, you have neglected to share with me your name, and if we are going to be stuck together for the next several hours, then knowing that much about you alone would be a blessing. My fatal flaw is that, on the rare occasion that I find someone interesting beside me for hours in a small enclosure, I must get to know the depths of who they are. No buts about it."
Slowly, the same flames of interest piqued within him again. I was relieved to see his mouth soften from its firm line, and his face relax in general at hearing my words. Nothing too emotive, but I would go as far to say that he smiled at my minor attempt at playfulness.
"A thousand apologies, Dr. Ives," he said. "I knew not that we both suffered from the same affliction."
"You're forgiven, sir. And you may call me Ada."
"Ada," he corrected with a small bow. "You have every right to be insulted by my misbehavior. I promise you, I take manners very seriously and am greatly ashamed. Considering that I shared my paper with you, a great leap of intimacy on my part, let me bless you also with my name as you requested."
With his hand extended out towards me in a gentlemanly fashion, he said, "My name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I work in the field of psychiatry, as you correctly assumed."
I took his hand, feeling his calloused fingers and the small squeeze they offered.
"There, I feel better now," I said as I returned to my drawing.
"As do I," he responded, though he didn't pick up his pencil. "I must warn you, however, that knowing the depths of who I am may be a challenge."
I nodded.
"The same goes for me, Dr. Lecter, but as I said before, I do like a challenge."
Dr. Lecter watched me as I drew. I could feel them, his eyes as I continued to draw his face.
"You're making me nervous," I confessed after the first few minutes of his observation passed.
"I wouldn't dare do so on purpose, Ada," he answered.
"Can you move your head? Just a little to the left, please."
He obeyed and I looked to him and the paper, my pen in constant movement.
"What were you doing in Italy instead of hearing my lecture on the latest findings on attachment theory?" I asked.
"I have been meaning to revisit Italy for some time. Work has been, as you can understand, trying over the past few years. A vacation was much needed."
"I hear the food's phenomenal. Then again, that's sort of common knowledge, isn't it?"
He chuckled. It was a tender sound.
"It is and for good reason. I appreciate foreign tastes. The brains and knowledge of different people from faraway places change the cooking experience exponentially."
"Do you cook?"
"Yes. It is a beneficial outlet for me and my work."
"As is drawing, it seems. Never knew I was in the company of a renaissance man."
"What are your outlets?" he asked.
A yawn and the stiffness of my neck told me to give my sketch a break. Putting the pen down, I stretched my arms above my head.
"Oh," I half-said, half-groaned. "Drawing, writing, all stereo-typical things. Nothing extraordinary."
"I doubt that."
I peered at him from the side of my eyes.
"Thank you, but extraordinary, I am not."
Dr. Lecter looked at me for a short moment as if deciding to say something or choose to stay silent. I was beginning to frown when at last a decision was made within his mind.
"Based on your published views that I have read multiple times on handling the psychological well-being of teenagers and your heartfelt approach to meeting their needs, I must assume that the woman behind such views can be nothing less than extraordinary."
My eyes immediately met his, and despite myself I found my cheeks burning sharply at his words. He offered no cheesy smile or blush of his own, only stared into my eyes as if my thoughts were racing across them in big bold letters. Then again, I felt so stupidly obvious beside him he probably didn't have to look too hard to know that I was astonished by his compliment.
Finding my voice, I parted my lips to thank Dr. Lecter for his kindness only to have someone speak instead.
"Espresso? Champagne? Wine?"
We averted our eyes to the aisle. The stewardess with the heavy makeup, the same one whose perky voice was as genuine as plastic surgery was standing there waiting. The best part was that her questions weren't so much aimed at both Dr. Lecter and myself, but more towards the handsome man beside me. Her body curved to face his, chest forward and eyes hooded. After taking in her appearance, I let my attention fall on the face of Dr. Lecter, who surprisingly appeared unappreciative. He seemed absolutely annoyed. It was the first full emotion that the man had expressed thus far in our flight together, and based on the way his eyes slightly narrowed and his jaw clenched I felt that he was trying to contain his grievances with a great amount of effort.
"Red wine," he replied to her coolly. He then looked to me with soft expectation. "Would you like a glass?"
Shaking my head, I said, "Oh, no thank you. I'm not a wine person."
"Then what would you prefer?" he pressed. "My treat."
"You don't have to-"
"But I insist."
There was no use refusing him. That truth rang loud and clear. There was a charm to this Dr. Lecter, a certain spell. Not too forceful, not too overbearing. Just the right amount of smile to make you agree.
I saw what he was doing. It was my living to see the controlling aspect of human kind after all. That, and I'm naturally paranoid of everyone.
I turned to the stewardess.
"Whiskey, please," I said.
Dr. Lecter's fair eyebrows raised at that, and as our glasses clinked and we sipped our drinks, his eyes never left mine.
"You are surprising me more and more, Ada," said his smooth voice.
"Don't underestimate me," I said. "As you say, I am extraordinary after all."
"That you are. Where is home for you?"
After a long drink, I answered, "Seattle."
"I have never been."
"You should visit there someday. Always something interesting going on."
"Perhaps I will."
I finished my glass and set it on the fold out table. Dr. Lecter stared at it.
"Would you like another?" he asked.
"Yes, and I would also like to know where home is for you."
The man flagged down the stewardess who happily listened and provided him another glass of whiskey. I openly smirked at her disappointment in seeing the doctor hand me the glass instead.
"My home is in Baltimore," he replied as he subtly took in the aroma of his wine. "Or was. I'm in the process of choosing a new home."
A silence fell in between us as we sipped. I chose to not look directly at him, though by then his body was facing mine and mine his. Our proximities were also closer, not in a suggestive way, but certainly not in a way that suggested complete strangers. The effects of the alcohol were slowly swimming their way throughout my body, my mood swaying to a more relaxed state. It was a dangerous thing, me buzzed.
"What are you thinking, Ms. Ada? That is, I am assuming you are a miss," said Dr. Lecter.
"I am a miss," I replied. "And as to what I am thinking that is for me to know solely, Dr. Lecter."
"Please, you may call me Hannibal, and why suddenly so coy?"
"Because I would like the halls of my mind to be unexplored by those I just met."
"That is understandable," he responded with a short nod. "Though, I must admit that I am now more curious."
I took my finishing sip of my drink and set it next to the first glass.
"Tell you what," I started, "I answer whatever you wish and you answer whatever I throw at you."
A light chuckle past his lips before he set his glass next to my own.
"Surely, this is a useful interviewing tactic for teenagers, no?" he asked.
"Works almost every time. A simple game of reciprocation. The key though is knowing when the other person is lying, and Mr. Hannibal, I am an expert at seeing a lie."
"I believe it," he replied. "Fine. I will play. Who will go first?"
"I will since I'm a lady."
"But of course. Ask away."
"What is the worst thing you have done in the last twenty-four hours?"
A thoughtful expression spread over his features and I grinned at seeing his closed smile show itself once more.
"In the last twenty-four hours," he mused. "I knowingly littered in the parking lot of my hotel."
My enthusiasm immediately faded.
"Lie."
The man cocked his head at my accusation, his smile still in place.
"Is it?" he asked.
With some authenticity, I sat back against the window and squared my shoulders. His brows raised slightly.
"It is. I am well versed in the art of lying, sir, and your attempt to evade the truth was sloppy. Pitiful, too. And, well, just rude, Mr. Hannibal."
Though I meant my words, I said them in the same level of politeness that he has given me. I believe that if one is going to call someone as one sees them, he or she should at least have the courtesy of using the proper honorific.
The man said nothing at first, allowing his eyes to assess me and I am assuming the meaning behind my words. I was sure to make my face as expressionless as humanly possible.
"A thousand apologies once again, Ms. Ada," he relented without a smile. "Rudeness appalls me."
"Oh, I'm sure it does."
"You have no idea."
"Tell me the truth then. What is the worst thing you have done today?"
"Why are you so interested in knowing?" he countered.
"Because you lied."
"That's not the entire answer, is it Ms. Ada?"
The way he bored into my eyes with his own, it was disarming. He was using them, his eyes, like a scalpel and tweezers.
"Is this your analytical side, Hannibal?"
"Yes. To be fair, I am not always in control of my analytical side. Neither are you, it seems."
Neither of us said a word after his comment, our attention held hostage to one another. What started out as fun banter suddenly felt heavy and more serious. My instincts were burning with curiosity. They always do when I detect heavy doses of charm and then a lie. One could argue that the question I asked was too prying in itself and could understand why anyone would lie. But then there were my instincts. They told me something was more peculiar about the man in the tailored blue suit. I didn't want to play anymore.
"What are you thinking, Ms. Ada?"
My teeth nibbled on my lower lip, a habit that emerged just when I'm about to make a major decision. The only time Dr. Lecter's eyes left my own during our spiced conversation was to look at my mouth. They lingered there for an extra second before returning to my gaze.
"The truth is," I started slowly. "That I wanted to play this game because I know that I will never see you again."
"You don't necessarily know that to be true, Ada. Our paths may cross again someday."
"I highly doubt that."
Dr. Lecter sat further back in his seat, his head tilted slightly upward as he dissected my mind with his gaze.
"Do you struggle with attachment?" he then asked.
"It's still my turn-"
"Do you?"
My lips pursed instantly. Dr. Lecter did not show any form of reaction at all, only that of a man patiently waiting for an answer.
Did he really know? Was I that obvious? But of course I was. Anger began to pulse through my mood, a stinging self-hatred for allowing my defenses to be so easily seen. In trying to throw up my walls towards an unassuming man, I had actually waved a great big red flag in his face. I had opened myself up to a psychiatrist of all people, a walking eye for seeing the strange behaviors of mankind, mine included.
I felt myself slowly retracting, but instead of wearing his smugness at catching me as most psychiatrists would, Dr. Lecter returned to his previous posture, his face softening.
"The worst thing I did in the last twenty-four hours," he started quietly, "was debate killing a man that I shared an elevator with this morning."
I frowned.
"Really?"
"Oh yes. I was about to step in the elevator car when the man chose to push me aside. He was talking loudly on his cell phone and failed to acknowledge me, much less apologize. During our dissension, he yelled many profanities into his phone. It was very vulgar."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
A sigh left his mouth before he said, "As am I. To my dismay, he shoved his way out of the elevator before I had the chance to snatch him. Also, I had a plane to catch."
"So you had no time to end his life. Lucky soul."
"Fortune was certainly on his side."
I allowed myself to lightly laugh at the turn of conversation, at the fact that I was actually talking to this serene stranger on an airplane trip. Dr. Lecter, too, relaxed at our talk's end, the skin around his somber eyes crinkling in the slightest as he allowed himself another sip of wine.
The slight buzz that my whiskey had given me was slowly making me tired. I felt it, the dizzying heaviness that crawled up from my toes and weighed down my arms. My eye lids felt heavier, too.
"Well, this has been fun," I yawned. "But, I think I'm going to attempt to sleep. We have about six more hours after all."
"Very well, then. Despite the fact that you are skipping my turn to properly question you, Ms. Ada, I wish you the happiest of dreams."
Dr. Lecter turned his frame forward while I leaned my head against the rounded window frame. The last thing I recall looking at before I slumbered was the opaque reflection of the man beside me, his eyes looking forward and unblinking. Part of me could have sworn he caught me staring at his mouth.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at John F. Kennedy International Airport! Thank you for travelling with us this evening. We hope to see you soon!"
The hum of people swarmed in the air again, along with the blaring voice of that cursed flight stewardess. My eyes blinked about before giving up and fully opening to the world, adjusting slowly to the light of the aisle of the plane.
"You rested through the whole flight. Not once did you wake up as you had feared."
My eyes widened instantly at how close the voice sounded and the feeling of hot warmth that touched my hair. To my horror, I realized that my head was not resting against the seat beside me, but on something warm and firm. Pressed against my cheek, patterned material and all, was Dr. Lecter's arm. I rose away from him, my face heating up at how the man was clearly amused at finding me there. Or, to make things worse, he had allowed me to sleep on him through the rest of the flight without moving. I couldn't tell which was worse.
"I'm sorry," I muttered as my fingers ran through my dark hair.
"There is no need to apologize," he said politely. "You needed your rest."
"Clearly."
A small nod and the man rose from his seat to open the overhead compartment. I gathered my things and stood waiting for my turn to step off the plane.
As we breached the entrance to the airport's waiting areas, Dr. Lecter fell in step with me.
"Thank you for the paper, the whiskey, and the conversation, Dr. Lecter. I had a lot of fun with you."
"I insist that you call me by my first name, Ms. Ada. Also, thank you for the pleasantness of your company. The flight would have been an entirely different experience without it."
"Oh!" I suddenly exclaimed. My steps ceased immediately as I dug in my carryon and pulled out my drawing from the flight. "This is for you."
Our fingers brushed again as Dr. Lecter took the paper from my extended hand. The sensation lingered on my fingertips.
"A very good likeness, though I still believe you compliment me too much."
"And I still believe that you are easy to compliment, Hannibal."
We stood by our gate facing one another, and though I enjoyed the presence of Dr. Lecter, an invisible force, otherwise known as the time of my next flight out to Seattle, was mentally pulling me away.
"I better be off," I said.
"I as well."
"Dr. Lecter?"
"Hannibal."
I smiled genuinely up at him. He was taller than I had realized.
"Hannibal," I started, "You may ask me my question now."
"I'm saving it."
"Saving it?"
"For when I see you next time, Ms. Ada."
"But we won't see each other ever again, Mr. Hannibal, remember? That's the plan."
"Perhaps we won't, but there is always the hopeful possibility that we will, and on that day, I will ask of the depths of who you are."
I didn't need a mirror to know that I was blushing. This man had a knack for making my face heat up, it seemed.
The hotness that pricked my cheeks was clearly felt as I stood before Dr. Hannibal Lecter at JFK Airport, my hair a mess and my eyes still tired. Dr. Lecter stood with his brief case and in his patterned suit that fit his frame nicely, amber eyes deep and handsome face giving nothing away of the thoughts within his mind.
Then, in one fluidic motion, his hand reached towards my face. I saw it in a slowed pace, something perceivable, and just as his fingers were about to graze my cheek, I moved away. My body stepped just out of range. Wordlessly, I turned and walked away from Dr. Lecter and towards my next gate that would return me to Seattle.
Only once did I look over my shoulder at the man I just met. He was still standing there, his regal gaze still looking out at me, and even from the great distance between my form and his, I saw Dr. Lecter smirk.
It haunted my thoughts all the way into my next seat on the next plane. I sat alone that flight, and I found that I missed having someone intelligent to talk to. I sighed while watching the sun return to its post high in the sky, my brain already picturing the brilliancy that is a Seattle sunset.
When I reached down and opened my carry-one, I frowned at seeing something unfamiliar nestled inside it. It was a rolled piece of paper held together by a paperclip. With curiosity brimming in my mind's cup, I carefully unrolled the paper and took in the sight of a pencil portrait drawn finely on the paper's surface. Immediately, I recognized the face to be my own, sleeping, my shut eyes and long lashes resting on my cheeks. As my eyes examined the work, I discovered a small note jotted in the corner of the page.
It read, "Dear Ada Ives, Let us play more games in the future, shall we? I enjoy them very much when playing them with you. Best, Hannibal Lecter."
All rights to this beautiful television series rightfully belong to NBC. I am simply an incredibly appreciative fan, low and humble beneath the greatness that is expelled by the writers of Hannibal. I hope that you have enjoyed the beginning of my work. Best, TCR.