First Class

I have no idea if my soliloquies make it to you or not.  In my imagination you read them in between emails. You look forward to them. They bring a slow smile to your face. A woman you adore adores you, too. And she makes no secret of it. You hate it and hope it never stops.

Worried as always you can't give her what she wants you return to work. The spaces that are familiar and easier to navigate, less complicated than the spaces between her fingers. Less warm too. 

Never asking for what you really want, and that's for her full attention. In the metaphorical sense. You shy from the solicitation because with it comes a reciprocal obligation for you to do the same. Back to work.

The next client. The next meeting. The next airport. Hotel. Country. The gratification you used to get from it has begun to wean. You want someone to care for you. To write to you. To be worried if your flight isn't in on time. Only you'd never admit it. Certainly not to her. Because she'd give it. She would give you everything you want and you know it...

So you order another Jameson and coke. Drink it fast and shake the remnants off the ice like you try to shake her off your mind. It'd moved beyond intrigue, curved through curiosity, and yet you hesitate in your pursuit of her. Unsure of the payoff. Really, unsure of yourself. Is this what you want? Is she what you want? You take the last sip and refocus back on work. The task. The deal. The plan. The thing you can predict and somewhat control. 

At least that's what I imagine happens. Up there in first class. 

"But," she whispers from 30,000 feet below and countless miles away, "If you want me to leave, I'll leave. But if you want me to stay..."