“Malcolm,” I breathed, almost silently, internally, my suitcase falling unhindered from my faltering hand as he approached, staring quizzically towards me in dumb disbelief; or worse, I feared, in dumbfounded dismay. What was he doing here?
Involuntarily I flushed, color screaming into my cheeks at the recollection of the unbelievably foolish thing I had done, that dreadfully stupid day nearly a year before when I’d learned that he was moving, never to return to this city I still called home. That letter I’d hand-delivered to his office, not even asking to see him, not really wanting to; knowing that once he’d read it I never could see him again, never would want to; would be confined to thinking of him only in the guise of the fantasies I’d so recklessly confided into the eternal silence of his imminent absence. Written depictions of imaginary scenes so graphic that my hair kinked and grayed merely to think of them; deeply personal secrets of my inner life that never before had I dared to share; that never before had I conceived with such indomitable passion.
It was inscrutable, this flatly expressionless face now pushing across the airport lobby towards me and instinctively I backed away; retreated stumbling backwards until I pressed up against the wall beyond the boarding area and could flee no further. Yet still he came, perhaps horrified, perhaps disgusted and offended by what I had done, and I could only watch helplessly, pinned against the cool blue tile, as he neared to within twenty feet, ten, five, two.
He stared, confronting me with his impenetrable thoughts, assailing me with his forbidding silence while I stared back, still scared, still shocked into speechlessness. And then abruptly he dropped his luggage and closed the gap between us from two feet to two inches and pressed me hard, harder up against the airport wall, his thick, sturdy arms encircling my waist, his chest crushing against mine in a powerful embrace. And suddenly his eyes were no longer incomprehensible, but warm and kind, and they gazed into mine without hesitation, without a trace of uncertainty. Roughly he pulled my torso towards him, away from the wall growing hot against my backside, his hands penetrating the thin fabric of my dress as they travelled down my back, over my hips, and around my buttocks, squeezing my cheeks tightly, tantalizingly in fierce, fervent fists. Grasping my naked thighs, he spread them, wide, then wider, and dizzily I relished the sensation of the air rushing through the space between them as he gathered my legs about his waist, pushed my back up against the wall, and tickled his thumbs over the firm, sensitive muscles of my unguarded groin.
He nuzzled between my open legs and without stopping to think, I pulled him eagerly forward, the blunted cloth of his khakis growing damp with my wetness as I stroked myself against him, feeling his cock so close, so unbearably close that I couldn’t believe that it wasn’t inside me, that it was still relegated to the realm of teasing anticipation. With heavy hands he clasped at my breasts and they swelled; met his fingers with equally greedy anticipation while he shoved his pelvis against mine, thrust it urgently towards me, almost into me, causing the skirt of my dress to fall away, laying my legs bare and my ass barer, only the silk of my thong standing between me and my pussy and the object of our mutual desire.
“Last call for Flight 751,” a booming voice interrupted and reluctantly Malcolm drew away, gently lowering my aching body back to the floor in a sad, lonely descent from the height of passion into the depths of despair.
He gazed at me again with his kind, caring eyes and for the briefest of moments pressed his lips against mine; a sparse, unsatisfactory kiss that left my tongue hungering for more, for even the slightest bit more. But already he had lifted his suitcase; was glancing forlornly towards the gate that even now was threatening to close.
“Where were you all week?” he said wistfully as he strode hurriedly away; not waiting for an answer; knowing, like I did, that it was too late to matter. I stood and watched as he vanished down the passageway, back towards his new faraway home. And then retrieved my own suitcase from where I’d dropped it, and took a taxi to my own.
It had been nothing like my fantasies, I thought that evening as I inscribed a new letter to Malcolm, one that he might, someday, still want to read; one that I someday might even send. In my dreams the deed was never half-done. In my dreams he was only half-gone.