Andrea
Spits of rain hit the windshield. Not enough for the wipers to sweep away, but instead they left a squeaky smear that obscured his forward view. He kept driving through the overcast dusk, down the desolate highway, then onto the airport road and finally slowed as he approached the parking gate.
He walked quickly, confusing thoughts swirling in his mind, but an underlying single-mindedness driving him. The lower area automatic door slid shut with a hiss as he scanned. Like a machine, he thought, pulling in images, analyzing, indexing his head slowly, sweeping the expansive area. Baggage claim carrousels, stairs, rental car counters and hundreds of people. He scanned back, then stopped. Yes, it could be…
He proceeded toward her, slowly, analyzing. He knew… “Andrea,” he said softly when he got near her. Not a question – more of a statement. He had wondered if she was real, then what she really looked like and now, how far this would go. She was much as described – and imagined – and hoped. Not short or tall; slim but with some shape; pale white skin; a roundish face – not beautiful, but pretty and expressive and even a little exotic; and the auburn hair – light auburn – pinned up in a large bun on the back of her head.
Lots of small talk, but more, a connection. Warmth. The warmth of another person who likes being with you and you like being with. The smile, glances, texture, smells and sounds that are missing from the words on a monitor.
“You’re hungry?” he asked as they drove.
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“Yes, but let’s get me checked into a room first. And you can fix up my hair for dinner … if you want,” she said with a sly smile.
The suite was large, with sofas and chairs, a table and mirrors in the main room. She returned in a dark green dress and black high heels. “You are gorgeous,” he said, and was pleased that she really was. She sat down on a stool at the bar. “OK, I’m ready,” she said softly.
“What shall I do?” he asked while pulling out the pins and unwrapping her hair.
“Anything you want. I’m all yours tonight baby,” she replied. With her hair uncoiled, the ends hung well below the thick stool cushion. Shining, straight red strands.
“What if I want to cut it?” he asked.
“Is that really what you want?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I’m all yours darling. Whatever makes you happy.” He brushed from forehead and temples down to the ends in long strokes and she leaned her head back and sighed. Over and over he brushed until finally he said to stand up.
“I’m going to cut,” he said. She stood up, but didn’t say anything right away. “Stand up straight,” he said quietly.
“Not too much,” she said – a statement, but almost a question.
“No, not too much darling.” He knelt down and brushed the ends, then picked up the scissors off the floor and pushed his thumb and forefinger through the handle loops. A pause as he placed the scissors. She shuttered a little and he could hear her breathing in short quick breaths. ‘SNIP’ – the scissors closed … and some red strands fell. ‘SNIP’ ‘SNIP’ – more pieces of her hair dropped to the floor.
“How much are you cutting?” she asked.
“About seven inches,” he replied. “Hold still now or this won’t be straight.” He continued to cut until there was a sharp, thick edge of red hair lying against the smooth green silk on the curve at the top of her buttocks. The floor was littered with long crescents of red hair. “Yes, you are gorgeous darling. Ready for dinner?”
No reply. She turned, took his hand, led him to one of the small sofas and whispered to sit down. She sat down beside him, but with her back toward him, then leaned back and put her head on his shoulder. “Hold me,” she said. He placed both arms around her and she guided his hands to her breasts, naked beneath the green silk. As he rolled her firm nipples between his thumbs and fingers, she shuttered again, but this time strong and wild. He held her tight with his arms and continued massaging her breasts until her breathing slowed…
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