Originally from issue #21, August 2010.

“Well, it is not every day you come across something like this,” she said while smiling coyly.

“You’re kind of full of yourself, aren’t you?” I tried to say it with a straight face but felt my pseudo resistance giving way to a smile.

“No, not at all,” she replied, her sarcasm taking an egalitarian tone. She turned around and walked slowly down the hallway of the building. I followed after her, lowered my head and butted it gently against her right shoulder.

“What was that?” she asked with a feigned shock that devolved into laughter.

“It was my head butt of affection,” I said, this time with a full, uninhibited smile.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup.” I lowered my head and did it again.

She laughed and we kept walking. We pushed our way through the double doors and out onto the walkway overlooking the Bay. The sun was in the process of setting behind us and dusk had fully engulfed the islands and water. That eerie feeling that comes with the realization of the time in between two definitive periods came over me. I looked over at her as we walked towards the bus. She looked over at me; the wind – as always a factor this close to the water – was gently blowing her hair and she tucked some strands behind her right ear. We slowed in our walk, she smiled at me and I returned the expression. She grabbed my left hand, squeezed it and then let it go. We walked down the steps to the bus while a purplish hue extended out into the far reaches of the water and to the southeast over the interstate in the distance.

Originally from issue #21, August 2010.

“Well, we made it back to Boston.”

“And we have peanuts!” she exclaims, smiling and holding up a handful of miniature bags with the airline’s logo emblazoned onto one side.

“Honey-roasted peanuts,” I add, emphasizing their most delicious attribute. “Forged by gigantic bees in a cauldron of molten lava in a forest in South America.”

“Actually, it says here they were made by Parker’s in Cincinnati,” she says, ruining my imaginary world.

“Same thing,” I say. “Anyway, it was nice of the stewardess to give you so many.”

“Yeah. Was it just me or did she seem a little tipsy?”

“I dunno, but it probably wouldn’t have been the first time it happened.” I pause before saying; “I loved that look on your face when she handed them to you. You looked like a kid that had gotten away with stealing candy.”

“Hey, it was the highlight of my day,” she says matter-of-factly before quickly adding, “besides meeting you, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” I reply, laughing.

“No, really. It was nice meeting you.”

“Well, thanks. It was nice to meet you too. How are you getting home?”

“I’m taking the bus to Manchester.”

“I started the day on a bus. It’s good times.”

“It always is,” she replies, standing up and taking her bag out of the overhead compartment. I do the same a few seconds later. “What about you?” she asks.

“I’ll take the silver line to the red line. It’s not too far. I just live down in Dorchester.”

We exchange pleasant small talk as we leave the terminal. We avoid topics that might spin out of control, knowing that we are soon to part from one another. It’s slightly windy when we get outside and her long, black hair is whipping around.

“This seems familiar,” I say as I glance around and tie my scarf tighter.

“Not for me,” she says. “I was in California this morning.”

“Yeah, I was in Indiana. Same old story.” There’s a pause. “Hey,” I start hesitantly, “I don’t want to be creepy but your hair is really pretty.”

“Oh, thanks,” she says with an awkward smile, while tucking some strands behind her left ear with her right hand. “And it’s not creepy. It’d be creepy if you took my hair and smelled it.” She laughs.

“I had a boss at an old job that did that to a female co-worker of mine. He ended up getting fired.”

“I’d hope so.”

“Yeah…that was a weird job. Anyway, I should probably walk down to my stop.”

“Okay.”

“But it was nice meeting you.”

“Same here.”

There is an awkward pause and I’m ready to extend my hand but right before I do so she says,

“Hey, do you want my phone number?”

I think, “Isn’t that kind of backwards? Shouldn’t she be asking for mine instead?” But I say “sure.” She gives it to me, we shake hands and she smiles a beautiful smile. I walk away and think about her lips. I wasn’t going to kiss her but I wouldn’t mind doing so, either.

But I’m never going to call her. Manchester is too far.