Sunday, December 5

Prologue

My plane is ninety minutes late. ‘Unforseen technical difficulties’ , ‘apologies for any inconvenience’ and ‘would passengers Choi, Brady and Parvez please make their way to the departure gate’ echoes through the departure lounge in English, French and Spanish. ‘Technical difficulties’. What exactly does that mean? A loose wing hurriedly riveted back into place? Coffee machines on the blink? Co-pilot stuck in traffic or just possibly between the thighs of a stewardess? We were not given any details. ‘Hydraulic fluid cable’ was alluded to with a knowing nod of the head by the man in a rumpled suit and day old growth of black stubble sitting to my left eating duty free crostini from the box. He offers me the box but I decline with a smile and a wave of my hand. He shakes the box, peers inside, grunts, stands up and shuffles over to the crowded espresso bar. Sixty minutes later, difficulties resolved, the plane takes off incredibly badly. After the shuffling and the curses, the tense smiles of the crew and the admonitions to please stow all luggage beneath the seat of in the overhead compartment, the plane takes to the air with a sudden, sickening, lurch. Like a kite it rises perhaps six hundred meters and then banks sharply back towards Aéroport Nice. Then all hell breaks loose. I nod knowingly to myself thinking, ‘hydraulic fluid cable’ – then panic. I want to tell her how much I loved her. And I just had.

“I love the sound of your voice, the way you smell, how you move ... I want you. I need you. I love you.” She rolls over onto her stomach and laughs. “Dearest you.” She strokes my cheek with her long fingers. “I’m flattered but – you really only need yourself.”

The fifth day of December and it’s 25 degrees beneath the palm trees lining the clogged Promenade des Anglais. The artery threads its way through the city, past the tourists, the busy market square and the coffee bar littered beach. The waves splash against the shore, pebbles crunch beneath our feet as we run up the embankment to the street. These sounds are all background noise to the thudding of my heart as we weave through the traffic and back to the hotel. Her voice, the cry of the seagulls, the salt in the air, the salt of her lips, the warmth of her skin. Holding her against me. We reach her hotel room on the 5th floor of the Meridien Hotel and fall onto the still unmade bed, warm from the sun shining through the old french windows. Am I being too reticent again? I almost drag her back from the beach through the snarled traffic to her hotel room, push her onto the unmade bed, lift her skirt and ... “I want you ...” She grabs my arm, then my hair, pulling me up to her face, raising a strict finger in front of my nose. “You’re going to miss your flight …” Her laugh is throaty, full of irony and expectation. “... so hold onto that thought. We’ll see each other next week. Now order a taxi …”

Oxygen masks release from above our heads and many of the passengers cross themselves. The woman seated next to me begins wailing hysterically, which makes the emergency announcement difficult to understand - though, if we’re going to crash, I doubt whether my seat being returned to an upright position or not will really matter. A man tries to open one of the emergency doors but is fought off by a stewardess – and by the man sitting next to it. I replay in my mind the memory of the kiss we shared before getting into the taxi - of waiting in the airport departure lounge looking through the windows along the stretch of beach I knew led to the hotel – back to our last kiss - her fingers on my cheeks smelling like rose water but her lips tasting like the garlic mayonnaise toasts she had just eaten. The plane shudders and levels out. A stewardess runs down the aisle in her stockinged feet and we are told to do something indiscernible in a calm yet garbled voice which rattles out from the intercom. I close my eyes and wait for the technical difficulties to end.

copyright 2009-2011 warren laine-naida from "the university club: a campus affair."