MY LOVE IS AT THE AIRPORT

He couldn’t be bothered

It takes an hour or thereabout to fly from George Best City Airport in Northern Ireland to Edinburgh in the United Kingdom.It can however take several minutes after one hour if your flight is delayed.That happened to us.Julia,Leslie and I when we wanted to go back to our hotel in Edinburgh after exploring all the sites Game of Thrones was allegedly shot at.That was after our induction training.

Tell you what,even after that tour,I feel nothing for the Game of Thrones.Yes legion of GOT-Lovers,I feel nothing come beat me.We were among the chosen few whose flight BE 554 was delayed by a cool forty five minutes.What do people do when their flights are delayed? Read books? Type on their unnecessarily expensive phones? Pretend to listen to music while looking at people they should perhaps talk to?

It is fascinating how everyone seems to be too busy killing time by anything else apart from talking to each other.What happened to normal human to human interactions? Pal,would you die if you actually talked to someone you’re seeing?

Perhaps that is why I abhor online dating.I mean,yes,I may be considering it but how am I supposed to like an online persona? How am I supposed to talk to a ghost account? Did stones replace your hearts you guys!

Julia suggested Starbucks coffee house as our object of objective time wasting…or passing depending on how you look at it.What a beautiful defiance to have an American coffee house in the middle of the United Kingdom.America and UK have always been in as silent war of words.English words.For instance,our trainer for the past couple of weeks.She had insisted that we write ‘oedema’ instead of ‘edema’ because the latter was American and Americans write mistakes.’Centre’ was Centre and not ‘Center’ because the latter was American and Americans do not write English.They write fluent mistakes.

What a beautiful thing to learn then that in both White Nations,coffee remained coffee.We were happy as happy could be.

As Leslie tried to tell yet another story in an accent I could barely comprehend,I saw him.Not to be rude but here we were,friends in a new country where we had to get along and tell jokes yet we all had amazing accents.Leslie is Jamaican.Julia is Filipino and I am Kenyan.We claimed to all speak English ut I swear what those two speak is alien to me.But they have such golden personalities.

Back to him.He was tall.Michelle Obama tall.His hair was fiery.Like somebody had dropped a smoking butt of a cigar on his head and lit it up.Then put out the fire.He was towering above the heads of other Waiting-Bay occupants as if they did not matter.Like he could see whatever they were thinking and it was not important enough.

He wore a dark blue pair of cotton pants an inch or two shy of his White ankles.He had a dark blue and white striped shirt on with sleeves folded back like Obama did when he campaigned.He garnished that look with a pair of black loafers.I like confident men.The way that look fit him was as if he was born into it.He commanded confidence.Confidence lay prostrate in front of him and allowed his sacred feet to walk on it.

He left two buttons open revealing a peek into his manly chest hairs and an imposing Adam’s Apple.God help me,his Adam’s Apple moved up and down in tandem to his movement.Like a silent rhythm to his wide strides,it glided in unison.An uncommon choir.I could eat his Adam’s Apple.I have a thing for this feature in men.It makes me make many unimportant decisions urgently.It makes me want to make a man mad just to see his Adam’s Apple moving as he talks to me.

My former mother-in-law’s son had one.I adored that little apricot.I teased it and kissed it.I patted it .I put my fingers on it as he talked and he hated it.I excused so many things because he had an Adam’s Apple and it was enough to hold us together.It didn’t.

So my Drop Dead Gorgeous (DDG) hunkie of a white man floated towards Starbucks and took a table next to ours.The way he sat on that chair made me make two conclusions.One,he was handsome and he knew the effect it had on all women who could see him presently–and some men.Two,he was the bloody owner of Starbucks.Or three, he owned the coffee plantations the coffee at Starbucks came from.Ah,he had been planted on the chair.Created with the room.

While other people pretended to recover from the effect of DDG,I did not.I held my gaze as Julia and Leslie continued with the numerous,”pardon me?”to their now deeply juicy story.

He opened his Mac Book and started typing.Oh he was a writer? A blogger? Or a serious writer? Maybe he wrote for Esquire and was dying to tell them something about Northern Ireland?

“Hi Mister,my name’s Catherine and I am a story waiting to happen,” I could introduce myself.

That must be an amazing pick-up line.It is smart! In another life,I want to come back as a man.I will have very cute pick-up lines not these ,”hae Mresh” unimaginative,unrehearsed,below-the-sea-level lines you guys throw at us.How we ladies fall for them is still a mystery.I will never understand us women.We are a work in progress you could surmise.

I did not introduce myself.

He eventually acknowledged the heat of my eyes and looked my way and smirked.I know it was a smirk because a man that handsome can not smile at mere mortals like myself.He smirked and ran a hand through his annoyingly beautiful hair.That is when I saw the wedding band.

Sweet David and the choir of heaven,he was married.Just like all the good ones.Married to some unappreciative woman-or man.I can not imagine him happy with anyone but me! Does his spouse even notice the golden Adam’s Apple? Does she even know how masculine that little peach is? Does she even bother licking it for no reason at all? Or is it just another normal occurrence to her? My heart is broken–again!

Soon the pilot was retracting the landing gear into the fuselage and we were nose-uppping towards the clear blue skies of Belfast.I looked at the airport again as it became a little mass of building.Down there in the waiting lounge of Gate 2,my wrong love sits ,typing.

5 thoughts on “MY LOVE IS AT THE AIRPORT

  1. I had to touch my neck several times through the read to confirm that my kalittle Adam’s apple hadn’t disappeared on me. Halafu, the confidence of knowing you ain’t hunting for ‘it as you are married/committed makes one seem more eligible, except not.

    Like

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