Another oldie, but another goodie.

So here's my first short story kiddies, more personal CRAP to follow. Just a reminder, always looking for contributors, or at least some comments. Ash$ says's what up!

SEAT 17F
Her glasses were great. Big, bold, and black, and she never removed them on our entire three hour flight. Her hair was dark and wild, and poked out sporadically from her hood. It was hard to tell if her locks were brown or black without freaking the poor dear out by staring. She was sitting in her seat like there were flesh eating piranhas swimming below. She wasn't very big, but it was still somewhat amazing to see her fit her entire frame, feets and all, into an airline seat. At this point she began tearing pieces of the "free" magazine into tiny bits, oh so quietly, and discreetly. It was hard to tell if she was 17 or 27, but I could tell she was soft by the way she cleared her throat. Her toes were pink as if to match the bandana tied round her wrist. Seventeen you say, well you're probably correct, afterall her jacket was an army green eskimo style parka with the faux fur framing her masked identity with ease. She was a nervous wreck, or so it seemed. Maybe she's just full of energy, or she's totally spun, or perhaps horny as hell. "K<3R" was self tattooed with an erasable pen on the web between her left thumb and forefinger, which was why I thought she might be feeling the all too familiar pain of young despondent love. She had a tiny piece of string of which she incessantly wrapped and unwrapped round the digits of her lateral appendage until the little bit turned up as a large tangle of yarn which, perhaps, I just didn't notice before. She then began to wind the yarn into a brilliantly colored orb. Why was I fascinated with a ball of string? It's the not the string you say? Well, you may be on to something, I'll let you know.

I had not seen her in the airport, you know the type, it's like she crawled out of the overhead bin just before take off. Dark and sweet are things that make me think. Elusive in every way, and quite possibly the fact of the matter. This may be where I've gone awry in the past. I may have led myself to the bitch before when what I truly desired was the shy and quiet one who holds her secrets so tightly that even she has forgotten them herself. What are they and why do I care? Is it the game, the chase, or the girl? It seems strannge now that I didn't even notice the screaming child in the next row over because I was so captivated by the one I never met eyes with, and maybe that's just it. It's a mystery. You see, interesting types have always got my attention, but why? Was she really mysterious and interesting or were her clothes and body language helping her to play the role of a lifetime?

Is fantasy part of fantastic, or is that one of those things I shouldn't concern myself with? So maybe she's 27 because it appear's that she's turning those little "quiet" pieces of magazine into magic bindi's. Probably not, it's hard to tell. Got her! She's an artist, knew it all along. Right. She has musically transformed the bindi's into a collage of sorts and as far as art galleries at 30,00 feet go, I say her piece is good. It's hard to make ou,t but It must have something to do with that self impressed tattoo. I felt for her, for I had been there before, so punch drunk in some kind of love that nothing in the world would set my mind at ease. It has occurred to me now however, that I am most likely projecting who I want here to be.
Why do I want her to be this way? Is it to know that I am not the only one in the depths of my mind that is over analitical? I try to take a deep breath, but the faint scent of honey has my medulla fixated once again.

It's these awkward little bugs that tend to drive me wild. I want to say something to console her, to let her know that she is not alone in the universe, that there is someone in the seat right next to her that feels what she feels, that knows what it's like to to experience the pain. I try to think of a smalll gesture or sign I can giv e because I realize how I feel when some stranger speaks to me, especially on a plane.

And so I sit, not saying a word, At this point my thoughts turn to me and trying to get all of this fancy right out of my head. It's time to return my seat to the full upright position, and prepare for landing. I draw a correlation here. My life, my dreams, or flights of fancy, can be thought of as a three hour tour. I get up in the clouds and wonder, speculate, and worry. It's up in the cloudy reaches of my mind that I am able to dissipate these fears, but the longing remains. Upon touch down I am relaxed, and I feel as if I've grown a little. A little older, a touch wiser,a smidge softer, and the thing that puts me to rest is the realization that I am the girl in 17F. At least at 30,000 feet.