***

"Pardon me, may I get in?"

Her voice is breathless and soft, slightly accented. I look up; she stands next to my bag on the floor, waiting. Long blond hair loosely braided and tossed over one shoulder, with strands slipping out the soft knot at the end. Nice body. Long legs. Strong arms and hands. Henna patterns on long and narrow palms. Casual clothes draping fashionably off her shoulders and hips – loose silk pants and a chemise shirt snagging from her hard nipples. What would they be like to touch?

I move my bag to let her in. A sweet scent – fruit, incense and linseed oil (?) follows her. Taste-me smell.

She sits down next to me. Her bag filled with books lands loudly on the floor. She pushes it under the seat with her narrow foot. It barely fits. She doesn't seem to care about any potential breakage, just shoves harder then pulls her leg up on the seat and dangles the other knee over her propped-up ankle. She rests back, closes her eyes, and loudly exhales. I only hear it, not wanting to look at her and encourage any conversation. Though I don't need to bother avoiding eye contact with her. Her only passing glance at me shows no recognition in her eyes; barely a fleeting interest, then blank indifference. As if she is already preoccupied with something else.

As if she is totally oblivious to my pale love-struck face plastered all over every billboard in every town, everywhere. Glad I grew a beard. At least my infamous jaw line doesn't give me away every time…

We are getting ready to take off. Neither one of us pays attention to the usual safety spiel; looks like she is another frequent traveler. I pull out my music and plug in. So does she.

She relaxes her arm on our armrest, next to my glass of beer. Her fingers are long and slender, but strong looking. She has well defined upper arms and overall body tone of a swimmer. The henna pattern lines on her hand traveling up her arm delicately accent her skin. This is sexy; I can see how the Indian brides and their lovers find it a must to turn on. Would love to draw on her breasts and hips, a crawling trail of slow simmering sin going down her body…

WHOA?!? Where did THIS come from??? This girl is not someone I could be even interested in and I definitely don't need this now.

***

Take off. From the corner of my eye I see her grasping the armrest harder than would seem necessary judging by her until-now confident presence. She does not look like one afraid of flying, but she seems to be, just like me. We got a match. So what.

The steward comes asking if we want anything else to drink. The girl turns towards him (and me) to answer the question. Now I see that she is probably between 26 and 28; older than my first impression of her being just barely legal to drink, and than my own 23 years. She has a strong, clear presence and something less tangible but as intense: a personal mystique that makes her stand apart from girls my age, and all other women that I met before. While LOOKING like a young girl she FEELS like an experienced woman, very comfortable in her sexy, I-Dare-You skin.

Her eyes ... while she orders her drink, I briefly look up to see them better. They surprise me: light and clear but unusually intense blue, with a very dark rim on the edge of her iris. They are huge, piercing, mysterious and wise all at once, and … unlike anything I have ever seen. And they look at me, through and past me completely indifferent. As if I was just another average clown. Dress-up Chico Robecito. Make-believe Hero. Make-believe Villain. Make-believe Movie Star that without costume, make-up and lighting gets lost in the crowd of very average-looking or even homely losers.

Which I am. Which the world foolishly sees as some kind of a smashing Hunk'O'Love, God's gift to women.

I am convinced of that.

Whatever. I move on past her cold shoulder and go back to my music. This is a good time to try to finish the song I started a month ago, on my last trip to LA. Maybe I can finally catch the ending that eluded me since then.

I reach into my bag under the seat to get my keyboard, headphones, and laptop. They are hooked up all ready to go; all I do is plug back in where I stopped.

Can't help but notice that she is also getting busy. From her bag she pulls out couple of old leather diaries. She opens the top, thicker one revealing interior of a small wooden art box with a large block of clay, pieces of thin cardboard, several well-used wood tools and beginning of a small sculpture. Looks really cool, but I don't want her to see like I am paying any attention, so I try to watch her unnoticed. Fortunately I don't even have to try hiding my interest. She is not looking at me at all, instead diving into her work, instantly oblivious to anything else around her. Maybe not everything. She is also listening to something on her headphones and slightly moving her body in a languid rhythm.

I feel her sway; she sits too far to physically touch me, yet close enough to feel our seat, and the air between us move as if she was gently brushing her body against me. Her left breast swings free under the silk sheet of her blouse. Her nipple once in a while traces random ghost lines on the smooth surface. No bra. I think of starting to get hard. And try not to.

She would not notice anyway; lost in her motion, eyes only half open, looking at nothing around here. Her hands are moving, kneading, shaping something. It is a neck and a head. A face: eyes, nose, lips open in a scream, now the head gets bent to the side – all seem to effortlessly emerge from under her fingers. I have never seen anything like this; she is finding her shapes in clay with her eyes closed. She is humming, her body gently rocking to the music in her headphones. I hear a faint buzz of a Bossanova, apparently a soundtrack she chose for her creative trance…

Caressing, touching, stroking hard clay into a new existence. Watching her I am definitely not able to concentrate on my music. This time I openly look at her hands, marveling at the magic flowing from her fingers. A miniature head – maybe 5 or 6 inches tall is coming to life. This was only about 15 minutes of work. How can anyone even do that?

She pauses. Quickly I look back down at my laptop, guilty and eager to avoid meeting her gaze and getting caught in spying on her creative flow. I have been feeling her swaying body with my own and suddenly want to be the clay under Her fingers. I don't want Her to know this. She is a stranger, and I don't need this complication in my already out-of-control life.

As if woken up from a trance She notices me, startled. Did she forget I am here? She runs her fingers through her hair, stretches her arms and rounds her back like a cat.

"Pardon me, may I step out?" Her voice. I am surprised realizing that I really wanted to hear it. We are now looking at each other, and there is a new sense of searching in her eyes. Aha! Now she thinks she has seen me somewhere. Maybe she is not totally oblivious.

But no, she looks away, indifferent as before. No further questions beyond the first one: "May I step out?

There is enough room for her to walk past without disturbing me, but my bag is again in her way. I drag it under my seat to let her through. I can't help myself and smile at her. This time she smiles back. Nice. Her lips are full and pink. No lipstick. Inviting. Look very soft. Or hard depending on what she wants to do with them. I look away, down at my keyboard. She follows my gaze as she passes through.

"Musician, huh?" Did she think that? -- I wonder.