I wrote this a few months ago, back when I was still able to craft a tale. It is adult themed and has some adult language. I hope you enjoy…
The jetliner hits the tarmac. The flaps change position and metal screams as the plane begins to slow. As usual, people are out of their seats before the plane stops. I am out of mine almost before we hit the pavement. Carry-on snatched from below the seat, springing forward I reach the door before all others.
Heart racing. Breathing shallow. Body trembles.
I am both excited, and a bit afraid.
A hiss as the lock of the door disengages. Hot, humid, Florida air rushes into the cabin. Sweat immediately forms upon my skin. My rapid breathing rushes the tropical air to my lungs.
I have no luggage to claim. I hurry my way through the crowded airport, dodging and sidestepping, even knocking over a person or two, sprinting to the exit as I try to follow signs that make little sense. The super cool air from the structure’s central air-conditioning causes an eruption of goosebumps up and down my arms.
Finally, I see the doors which lead to the passenger pick-up area. My sprint stops.
What if she isn’t here? What if she changed her mind? What if when she sees me, her feelings fade?
I steel myself, clutching my overstuffed bag, I lower my shoulder and solider forward.
The heavy air greets me once again. This time there is no flimsy corridor to blunt its force – I welcome its weight upon my body. I suddenly realized I don’t know what type of car she drives. My head moves to the right and then the left. Dozens of people mill around, struggling under the heft of their luggage. I don’t see her. I walk to my right a few yards, then to my left the same. I don’t see her.
In my pocket my cellphone vibrates.
“Look behind you.”
I turn. She smiles.
Her mouth opens, and in a sultry accent that speaks of a tropical isle she purrs.
“You don’t write, you don’t call.”
I drop my bag. I look at her, all of her. A floral patterned sun dress clings to a body more perfect than God should have ever created. Caramel colored skin reflects the strong Florida sunshine. Hair loosely covers one eye; the other’s ebony color draws me in closer.
I sweep her into my arms. I whisper into her ear, “I love you.”
She whispers into mine, “I love you baby.”
For the first time in more than a decade our lips meet. They mirror one another, in perfect sync as if not a day has passed. Her kiss is as sensual as I remember, and her mouth cool and refreshing as is an autumn eve.
Tears well up. My masculinity loses to sensitivity. Each cheek becomes damp, then wet.