February 6, 2024Body Talk
Sometimes in airports I leave my body behind—
my old body, I mean. I step into the younger version,
the one where I flirt with just about anybody,
who cares, because nobody knows me—
it has to be a big airport, preferably international—
and I carry on as if I’m not even thirty yet, so whoever
stares back at me can trust me and start imagining
how hot it will be to ditch the flight and head for
an airport hotel. This happened the other day.
He was maybe late 40s, no gut, but nothing
too fit—just a nice-looking guy who wouldn’t
make a quick fuck complicated or need to ask
my name afterward, just to be polite. So I smiled.
He smiled back. Maybe not at me—the gate
was jammed with people trying to rebook after
storms the day before. Still, the 20-something me
went right on trying to woo. I decided to pull
my carry-on closer, wanting to be sure he meant
his smile for me. I moved closer, closer.
And he stood, offering the old lady his seat.