Electra's dictionary; Chapter 21, in flight

I ask,

“why Paris?”

He says,

“why not?”

“How are you paying for this?” I ask.

“I have a credit that I had to use because it was about to expire,” he tells me. But I don't know if he just made this up.

He isn't flying, he is driving to meet me. I can't use my phone and wonder if it is worth it to take it. I will be arriving there at night, leaving Detroit in early evening.

Dean hardly talks at all the night before. He only says,

“don't spend any money.” And then later adds, “the way he pays, maybe you can work out more jobs with this guy.”

I have to leave for the airport while Dean is at work. I call for a ride. And the rush to find where to go, the lines and the confusion before boarding occupies my thoughts until I find my way to the seat. I just have a backpack that I shove above.

There is time to think after the plane takes off. Time to begin to feel nervous. Why was it so natural to turn to him? I think of our last time together and all that has happened since. My mind seems to have aged an eternity since then. He spoke of need. I run from need. Only I won't think of this. It terrifies me. But there is this feeling of escape with every hour that passes. Like a kind of free-fall, under water, towards seaweed arms.

There are moments where it feels my pulse is racing and this makes me even more scared. It is every time I begin to think of him. So I try a game with myself. I pretend that I am just going somewhere on a vacation, that it is only me, that I can run away once I get there and never have to look back or go back. To anything. Never have to go back to my life. Except for Jamie.

The way my seat is, I am confined by who is sitting next to me and forced to be shoved partly into the isle. My right foot keeps getting stepped on and then rolled over by the cart. This is endurable because I am thinking about Paris and trying to remember the last time I was there. I also notice French being spoken by passengers nearby and try to recall my grasp of the language by deciphering conversation.

Towards the end of the flight, I go to the lavatory; wash my face and brush my teeth. I put on some make up. Lip stick. Then blot it until it looks natural. Shake out my hair. I say to the mirror, “how do I look?” I find that I am so nervous. My hands are shaking. I wonder why this is. It wasn't like this last time when I saw him; I felt more in control last time. It feels different now. Meeting him under the pretext of this being for business has allowed me to not think about the ulterior motive. We never spoke of it on the phone. He just said, “I'll give you an advance if you meet me in Paris and we can discuss what I want you to work on for me.”

Before I turn away from the mirror I look at my eyes from behind my eye-glass frames. For one second I have trouble looking. But then, I see something I had not expected. I recognize something familiar and it is only later as I am stepping off the plane that it occurs to me what it was that I saw. I stumble as it hits me. I saw me.

But then, it is long past everyone on my plane has left and I am still standing there at arrivals and there is no sign of Bran. I begin to worry. I wonder if he had a problem on the way. I have no phone because I left it in Detroit. I wonder if I should try calling his phone from an airport phone. I consider this and pace around looking for a phone. I ask someone who points me towards a desk, but there is a line there. I wait on the line. And as I stand there I am having misgivings. I feel like an idiot. But no-- my mind reminds me, you needed to find a job to make money and you knew he'd help you. But this is worse because now I seem like a prostitute. Why did I go to him? Why was it so natural? Why should he feel like safety to me?

And then I hear my name being called and I turn away from the line and see him running towards me across the airport. He is beautiful running towards me. He looks so good. It stuns me. Even as he is always rumpled in his clothes, on him it is unbearably sexy somehow. He wears all dark blues and grays, like cool water in contrast to his dark hair and beard. His colors are warm. And then he is looking into my eyes.

“Hi,” I fall into the muddy moss of his.

Sink down and into him. We stare.

He puts his hand up to my neck and cups the base of my skull within his hand. And then roughly pulls me to him. He crushes me.

“I've missed you so much,” he says this against my ear and kisses me. His mouth is gentle as it possesses. I kiss him back, swept up in the motion of his tongue. I forget about where we are. We are unconscious of where we are.

He takes the backpack from me and takes my hand. He pulls me with him through the airport as I stumble after his long-legged stride.

It is funny to see his car. To see something of his life. To see that this is the car he sits in sometimes when he calls me. I look at it closely before we get in. I walk to it as if it is a monument. It is a faded blue shade. I don't pay attention to the make. I see it is not new but not old and somewhere in between in great shape and not so great shape. He moves in front of me to open the door, and then he puts my backpack in the back seat. And then he holds me there inside the door and leans up close to me. He looks down into my face. He is smiling at me,

“sorry I was late. I kind of got lost.”

It doesn't even matter. Nothing matters except this moment. He has the best smile. It does not matter what I obsessed over all these weeks. It seems so irrelevant now. I put my arms around his neck and stand on toes to reach him. Leaning into him. I put my face inside his jacket. I am wrapped in seaweed arms. I breath him in and feel all darkness wash away.

“Let's go,” his voice cracks.

I get in and he shuts the door. I watch him get in on the other side. Watch the way his endless legs arch towards the floor peddles, the way his long fingers grip to change gears as he backs the car out, and then I look at his profile and realize how much I have missed his face. I want to touch it, but-- not yet. I resist.

He says,

“a friend of mine has lent me his place to stay at. That's where I just came from.”

I say,

“really? A friend? That was very nice. Does this friend know.... that-- it isn't just you?”

He meets my gaze briefly,

“it's fine, Beth,” then smiles and reaches for my hand. He squeezes it and holds it for awhile until he needs to use his again.

We don't talk. The way seems confusing. He is trying not to get lost again. I watch him try to navigate around and ask him what we are looking for. But I am still dazed to be in Paris. I am in blissful culture shock so even when he says the name.... Rue de....???? I am, instead, looking at architecture and landscape, enamored by the street signs, the art.

He says, noticing,

“it'll look even better in day light, but we can walk around later tonight if you want.”

He finds the street and parks the car. I feel unstable getting out and realize that I've been traveling for hours and would love to walk. The building we are walking to now is white. It is a row of neat, terraced flats with pretty black wrought iron. The walkway is stone and decorative. There is a back courtyard with tables and a fountain. I walk looking around as Bran pulls me along.

Arriving at night adds to the feeling of this being a dream. And I think this as we go up the stairs to the flat that belongs to a friend of Bran. When we go inside, I can see that the place has been hastily cleaned. The sound of some machine suddenly stops soon after we walk in.

He says,

“perfect timing....”

I see him open the clothing drier and take out a set of dark gray sheets. He looks at me,

“I straightened up before you got here. He's a single man....”

I laugh and walk around to snoop. But the charm of the flat is in the detail of architecture on the inside too. I like the windows, the way they arch. I like how tall they are and how they open out so wide. The bathroom is quaint with old porcelain and tile and as I walk around, I count in my mind how many days I will be walking through these rooms. I was not counting days before, I was not really thinking. Not beyond seeing him again. I count on my fingers the dates.... the 26 through the 2^nd....

I don't think I packed enough.