You’d been waiting at Arrivals for 20 minutes.
It seemed shorter; you’ve been working through your excitement and anticipation, balancing it against guilt and anxiety. You’ve eventually justified the guilt against the years of boredom and the feeling that your life has been wrested from your grasp. You deserve some happiness, you’ve been owed passion for a long time.
Initially, your anxiety was heightened by the thought that you may be seen by people you recognise. Your imagination of the forthcoming events have quelled the anxiety a little (this quelling away follows a slight tightening between your thighs, delivering a sensation that reaches your belly); you’ve occasionally found yourself thinking “my god, I’m drunk on lust, and…I really don’t care! The chances are so small and I have friends who have my back. He’s done worse!”
You watch the stream of arrivals and even though you’ve never seen him in the flesh before, you instantly recognise him.
“I’m not going to be able to talk” is your first thought as your mouth tightens around the butterflies trying to escape from your tummy that is now doing belly-flips.
“This is really happening!”
You take in everything in an instance.
He’s looking slightly older than you’ve seen, but then doesn’t everyone. He’s taken care of his appearance but not in the way to suggest that he’s done it for himself… no, he must have thought about you.
Open necked shirt with suit trousers, jacket folded over his arm. He’s pulling a small black case behind him.
You realise his eyes really are blue as he scans the crowd.
His gaze finds you
