My wife is engrossed talking to her male friend from the conference, doesn't notice that I'm watching the young girl standing with her back to the airport train door, her angular face animated with excitement, her blond hair pulled back tight across her head into a short bouncy pony tail in back. The source of her enjoyment is a tall thin Indian guy in dark glasses and a baseball cap who is standing about a foot in front of her, slightly stooped, whether naturally or to hear her better, I cannot tell, nor can I hear the conversation, but after about ten minutes she leans back away from him and mouths, silently, but distinctly, but with a giant smile, "you love me!" and as she speaks her next words she leans in toward him, her right hand on his shoulder, trailing down his arm, lingering on his left hand, finger to finger.

I wonder at her brazenness, at how much she has planned, whether they will be taking separate flights home, and her goal is to imagine him restless and thinking about her, or whether she is the resourceful type who even in these days of insane security has figured out some way to fuck him in the airport. Or perhaps they are flying together and have a long flight ahead of them, six hours if it is a coast to coast flight. Six hours for the sexual tension to build, six hours needing to fuck, six hours wondering how, on a crowded plane, how after the flight, how even to look normal in front of, much less avoid, their respective mates who will be picking them up at the gate.

Been there. Done that. Wishing I was the Indian guy right this second.