The moment he reached the airport gate, Michael knew exactly where he would sit– straight across from those legs, strong and sultry in black stockings.
He dropped his carry-on bag so that it would thud, then rustled his newly purchased magazine in hopes that she would look up from her book– a small, green cloth-bound volume.
She kept reading.
Michael opened the magazine, but his eyes were drawn to her. Chestnut-hair, pulled back in business-like fashion. Navy-blue suit. Wonderfully wide hips. White blouse, taut against full breasts. Captivating legs, crossed perfectly at the knee.
And the shoes– classic black pumps, with a dangerously steep heel. A hint. There was more to this woman than just blue suits, more than just business.
As boarding began, Michael hoped the fates would be good and seat him next to this beauty on the four-hour flight.
First class was called, followed by the rows in the rear of the plane. She did not move.
"So far, so good," Michael thought. "This is a little like watching the lottery numbers."
His row was announced, and he stood and dawdled, hoping she would rise at the same moment and he could strike up a conversation. But the woman merely closed her book, gathered papers from the next chair, slipped them into her carry-on bag, and re-opened her book. When she leaned over, Michael saw her blouse shift and he caught a delicious glimpse of soft creamy flesh, spilling against a lacy red corset.
"Please stand up, please talk to me!" Michael screamed in his head.
»»She turned the page of her book.
As he shuffled to the jetway, Michael let others ahead of him in line... stalling, waiting, looking over his shoulder again and again at the woman. Hoping.
But she stayed put. Reading.
On board and headed towards 16-B, Michael found his seat on the left, settled in, and waited for the woman. For a moment he worried that she wasn't on the flight at all. Maybe she just picked that gate to find a quiet place to read. Maybe...
And there she was, moving down the aisle, eyes flickering from her boarding pass to the seat numbers. Michael tried to will her into the empty seat next to him. That, he thought, would be exactly like winning the lottery.
She stopped three rows in front of Michael, placed a small bag on the right-hand aisle seat, and opened the overhead bin. As she reached up to stow her bag, Michael's eyes followed from the side of her neck to her blouse, to the skirt riding up her strong thighs, to her knees... then his breath caught with the arousing realization that her stockings were seamed up the back.
Michael always thought back seam stockings spoke of romance and mystery, of lustful and sultry old-time movies, when the star actresses had full, womanly bodies instead of stick-figures. Michael's eyes followed the seams along the curve of her legs, her calf muscles flexing as she stood tippy-toed to reach the bin. He was imagining his fingertips riding lightly along the seams when she glanced back and caught him looking. He grinned weakly. She suppressed a smile. Did he see a hint of amusement in her eyes as she slipped into her seat?
After takeoff, Michael fidgeted with his magazine... opened, closed, askew, closed. His thoughts were totally on the woman in 13-C. From where he sat, all he could see was an occasional glimpse of her left arm. But he clearly imagined her. That flash of delicious milky flesh and red lace. The stockings. The heels. The merriment.
When the drink cart rattled down the aisle, Michael saw her hand reach to accept the plastic cup and tiny bottle of white wine. When the cart rolled alongside Michael, he ordered two scotches, and after the cart passed he saw that the woman in 13-C had crossed her legs so that the top leg extended into the aisle, leg and shoe magnificently on display.
And then she let the shoe slip from her heel and dangle from her toes. She flexed the shoe back on, her leg muscles tightening under the stockings. The shoe dangled again, and once more it was flexed back into place. She did this over and over, a slow, rhythmic strip-tease of the foot. She kept this up until the dinner cart arrived.
Michael gnawed on chicken and wondered if the shoe dance was on purpose– for him, or just a nervous habit. The thought that she did it for him made his throat tighten around a swallow of food.
After dinner the cabin lights were dimmed, passengers huddled against pillows and under blankets, and the plane was quiet except for low murmurs of conversation and the throb of the jet engines. The airplane felt cozy and intimate. Michael noticed that the reading light was on over 13-C, but he saw no arm, no hand, and no leg with dangling shoe.
He wanted to see her.
Michael unfastened his seat belt and moved up the aisle. As he passed 13-C, he glanced casually in her direction. She had pushed up the arm rest that had been separating the seats and was reclined slightly across them. Nuzzled up against a pillow, under the cone of light, she was still reading her small book. Her jacket and shoes were off. She did not look up.
He went to the magazine rack and grabbed a copy of Golf World, even though he hated golf. On the return trip he got a longer look. Her skirt was riding up far above her knees, and he could see the black lace tops of her stockings. She kept her eyes on the book.
Michael let a decent interval pass at his seat. He got up again and as he passed 13-C, the plane lurched slightly and he paused to keep his balance while stealing another look at her. Now he thought an extra button on the blouse had been undone, revealing a more luxuriant breast, a more lacy red corset. He moved ahead and grabbed a copy of Better Homes and Gardens, even though he owned neither a home nor a garden. On the way back he got the longest look. Now her hair was down, draped across her shoulders, and the skirt had ridden up yet higher and he could see a peek of garter. She kept her eyes glued on the book.
Michael slumped into his seat, wondering how long he would have to wait until he could fetch another magazine.
Then he saw her emerge from 13-C, heels and legs first. She stood in the aisle and raised herself on tippy-toes to open the overhead bin and fish a small toiletries bag from her carry-on. He gratefully ran his eyes up the seams on the backs of her flexing legs, and she glanced over her shoulder and caught him.
She followed his gaze, tilted her head to see her legs and noted, "Oh, are my seams crooked? I guess they are."
And with a casual hmph, she marched down the aisle, toward the back of the plane, toward the restrooms. She passed Michael's seat without a word, without a glance in his direction. He felt an emptiness in his belly.
Then he felt her breath on his neck, her fingers delicately on his shoulder, her face close to his cheek.
"Aren't you coming?" she whispered. "I'm going to need help straightening these."
~MacKay Matteo
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