She is sitting in one of the nerve-racking lobby area of the huge JFK Airport in New York. Outside the storm is thundering and twisting: flying snows flakes are dancing into the noble wind coming from the North. It seems to be at dawn, when a tiny and milky light is shy to follow its inner soul: too many obstacle on its way to bright. Everything seems wrapped and stuck, at the same time.
But inside, oh inside that huge and labyrinthine place on earth, meaning waiting and running away, or enjoying to come back home — an airport — oh, inside other struggles are going to pop out.
When Nature behaves as itself, despite humankind, you can do nothing, just waiting, that the storm passes by and worshiping your flight will be announced.
She is sitting and feeling uncomfortable, turning back her staying pages as in a film with the worst assembly ever. At every frames added, she feels powerless and restless. And still, like she was in hurry, confined in that uncomfortable seat for a lucky announcement: the key for her to come home an draw a straight line on her dreams, chances or projects, whatever the appropriate name has been for that staying. Now she does not know anymore. It has been a not conclusive journey that one to New York. 15 days of tourbillon of meeting and working lunch and dinner, too, to show up her project. She thought it might be revolutionary: a sophisticated mobile application to make pair match detecting them into the same area. A 2.0 review of an agency for lonely hearts. She discovered nobody was really interested into financing the project.
That staying in New York has been a constellation of well explained and motivated “NO”. She was disappointed. She believed she would have to get a chance: are US still the land of possibilities? She did not show her cards well.
So now, she is sitting in that repeating chewing of thoughts and she is waiting for an unexpected announcement, with her long black hair covering her face like a curtain on a stage, when the show ends up, hiding her look from people’s curiosity because she is crying.
He pays the ride and closes up the cab door in a precise slam, hurrying to get the comfort and the mildness of the airport. The storm is at its climax. The noble wind coming form the North blows up snow flakes as a a broken candy machine: you cannot know what the intensity will be.
His hand opens up the door. He is at safe from cold, now. He turns around to the teeming screens and immediately he finds out the gate for his flight. Three hours waiting before taking-off. He likes staying there. Since he was a child, he liked airport: that tidy chaos, that coming and going of people smiling, chatting too loud as to express the excitement for an unknown journey. And now, growing up, every time he enters an airport he feels like being in a kind of holy place. He stays pasted into this background for a while, without being disoriented, but aware of the fact he is there looking at that mixed example of humanity.
Time to move now. But first he needs something hot to recovery his body from the poking snow. He arrives to his destination with a cup of Starbucks double cream vanilla cappuccino and his twisted name on it. He sees her, trying to find something in her bag like digging in a dry soil, pulling out everything in a frantic way and realizing that something — something very important — is missing. Her face is contracted with disappointment. Her eyes in red, her runny nose. Not really a nice show, but something in the way she moves, the gesture of her hands, her grace, hits him inside and leads him to sit in front of her. In a very unblushing way, he decides not to miss any move from her. He feels he has to do that: staying close to her, without losing sight of her.
Well, well, well, this is the acme. She forgets her book, the one she is reading, Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace. And now it is simply not where it was supposed to be: in the bag with all the other stuff. Has she then to wait being invaded by her disturbing ugly thoughts? Not at all. She has to interrupt those aggressive and tidy rows of soldiers, collecting their strength to maintain the position they conquered into her head. She needs to interrupt this stream. So, she stands up and the bag falls down on the floor and all inside is free to run away: unruly rolling coins, tissues, wallet, lipstick, candies. Warm hands collide while she is collecting her belongings from the floor. She has a thrill. She lifts her eyes. She gets lost into the most green — gray eyes ever. Like a sea, wild and gentle at the same time. For a blink of an eye time is out of chains: no noises, no coming and going legs. Just the touch of their hands.
A muttered “thank you” and she picks up her again filled up bag and march, like a soldier, to her target: buying Alias Grace. Time is enough for this mission and she is ready to knock every airport bookstore until she does not find her book. Finding it means a reward and a payback. The emblem of a necessary restarting.
When the bag falls down on the floor, he can not stand it anymore. He helps her to collect everything in her bag.
Their hands touch for an infinite moment and he feels like a little jolt of electricity through his body and a pair of green eyes are staring at him in wonder and astonishment. He rouses himself helping her to pick up all the things from the floor.
He looks at her while she is filling up her bag and moving away with the clear intent and determination of searching for something. He decides to follow her. Whatever her destination will be, he needs to get there before her. A plan comes up into his mind. He has to try it and get it. She is his person.
She reaches the nearest bookstore asking for the book. Negative answer.
She goes on following another direction.
She reaches another bookstore, she asks and again the answer is negative.
She keeps on moving, following other directions, stubborn and determined: that book must be hers!
He follows her and realizes what she is looking for. Much more important details: he grabs the title. He is an usual visitor of that airport and he knows it very well and he knows some tricks to cut the way to reach faster the next bookstore.
She reaches the fourth bookstore. She asks for the fourth time. “ I am sorry! We have sold the last copy just few minutes ago.”
How many attempts one has to do to get what he deserves? Four seems enough.
She has just to come back to her seat and waits again restless or whatever her mind wold have been suggested.
It takes much more time to arrive to the lounge area. She walks proudly because you have to show up strong when you are weak. She get her seat, again. But something has changed. On the seat there is a little pack. With a green ribbon. She turns to be a toddler and grab it because, no matter how, she knows it is for her. She is excited while unwrapping the paper: what shape would her surprise have been? And finally the covering paper is on the floor and she holds in her hands THAT copy of Alias Grace. She opens up the book. There is a written phrase: “You are beautiful, you are bountiful, you are blissful” followed by a mobile number and “Call me”. She meets an angel with a mobile, too! She starts turning around searching for somebody and then she finds that somebody out: a man is looking at her, few seats rows away from her, waving a mobile. She smiles. She picks up her mobile, too. She dials the number and his voice comes inside her.
He comes back to the lounge area before her an puts the little pack on the seat. He said the shop assistant to use a green ribbon, as her eyes have been as green spell on him. And he runs and runs, passing through people, saying chased sorry. He needs to be there before her. And he gets it.
He hides and here she comes. Her face lights up in wonder. He observes each movement, each soul reflex on the her face, the way she raises her head searching for him and then she encounters him, watching her.
He waves his mobile approaching it to his ear, waiting for it to buzz. And when the music starts, he knows it is her. He knows he is ready to make her enter into his life.