My suitcase clacked noisily on the tile as I strode through the automatic doors into the airport. I walked up to the computer and checked myself in, receiving my boarding pass and handing my luggage to the woman behind the counter.

Once past the security check, I found a Starbucks kiosk and ordered a green tea and raspberry frappuccino. I then found my way to the terminal that would be taking me out of Seattle for the next few days. I located a relatively clean seat and pulled out my book to pass the time.

xxxxXxxxx

"Southwest Airline flight 226 to San Jose is boarding at this time," the man behind the counter droned. I put away my book and got up to join the queue of people waiting to load the plane. The lady checked my ticket, and I soon found myself in a window seat, facing the clouded sky outside. Slowly, the plane filled up, including the seat beside me with some guy in jeans and a black sweatshirt. I stared through the thick pane as people in orange vests ran around directing planes and moving luggage in trucks.

"Do you like the Beatles?" I turned to look at the guy next to me. "Do you like the Beatles?" he repeated.

"Yea. They're pretty good," I said, looking at him with a furrowed brow. He unplugged the headphones hanging around his neck, and the DVD player in his hands started playing "Yellow Submarine" softly. I turned back to the window.

A few minutes later, the call for all electronics to be turned off sounded, and the DVD player was put in the seat pocket. The plane started taxiing towards the runway.

"What's your name?" the guy beside me asked over the roar of the engine starting up.

"Laura. You?" I returned politely.

"Matt," he replied smiling. "You live in Washington?"

"Yes," I said, taking in his dark, reddish-black hair and three day shave. "You?"

"I live in San Jose. I'm coming back from a trip my friends and I took to Vancouver. We had to get up at two to start driving to Seattle."

"That sucks."

"Yeah."

"What are you into?" he asked.

"Editing, I guess. You?"

"Special effects," he replied, "I'd love to work for Spielberg."

"That'd be awesome," I stated, smiling.

"Yeah."

xxxXxxx

Two hours later, the plane started descending. Matt – who was born and raised in Hawai'i and surfed like pro, knew a lot about animation, the invasive Crown of Thorns Starfish, and now me – was pointing out bridges across the San Francisco bay as we were flying in.

"That big one is the San Marino… and down there – see that? – those are the salt ponds," he said, leaning close to gesture towards the various objects, his other arm brushing mine on the armrest.

"Look! Just underneath us – is that the Golden Gate Bridge?" I asked, finger pressed over the glittering line so far below us.

"Must be," Matt said, pulling against his seat belt to look. I turned to him, and our faces were mere inches apart. His eyes were on my chest, not the bridge, He shifted back awkwardly when he saw that I'd noticed.

"Please prepare for landing," the captain said, and all too soon the plane was safe on the ground.

With a few nice-to-meet-you's, we went our separate ways.

xxxXxxx

I still regret not getting the number or last name of the illusive Matt. I'll never forget meeting him. I still talk to strangers all the time now, trying to find one as awesome, but none can replace him.

This is actually a true story that I changed just slightly to make more understandable. I'm still looking for this Matt. I've tried Facebook and google, but really – how could you possibly find someone with only a first name and a few hobbies?