Flying High

Waiting for your flight to take off is no place to have fantasies about someone. Take that woman sitting opposite him, near the duty free enclosure. Her ring-swathed hands are holding what looks like a woman's magazine and every now and then, her gaze strays toward him.

He's flying home to L.A. from a week-long business meeting in Kuala Lumpur, and more than ready to go home. No question. His attention is temporarily diverted by the lights winking outside the new sky-high ultra high-tech airport, but only momentarily. The darting green-eyed glance over the magazine top is too much, and it's opening up new vistas.

He'd read somewhere that the male of the species is predatory, meant to be that way for the continuation of homo sapiens, but he'll be on his best behavior, while Eileen and the boys are waiting for him at the other end. Just talked to them this morning, matter of fact.

He shakes out a copy of Asia Today. Not that the discussion of stocks quotes listed there interests him, but jammed as it is sideways in his carry-on, it's the most easily accessible reading material to fish out.

He glances at her when she's isn't looking. She's wearing a clinging blue shift-like dress, long, shapely legs free of nylons. His gaze travels down to one pump-clad foot tapping lightly in the air, its owner obviously unaware of its distracting movement.

As the top brass of the Niles Stuyvesant company controlling a group of hospitals, a week's worth of negotiating new management policies in the boardroom of the Petaling Jaya Medical Centre, he's feeling drained. But staring at the vision in front of him has revived him. Suddenly, he feels giddy and light-hearted. He's had no female company, just boring boardroom harangue for the better part of a week, and his voice has the rasp of a bull frog's croak. Which is why he's hesitant to chat with the dish sitting there until he's sure he's got back his hot fudge sundae voice he reserves for casual encounters with women.

What a look she just gave him. Oh, she's asking for it all right. On a long flight to L.A. with a stopover at Osaka the possibilities are endless. He looks around needing a cover for formulating his plan of attack . . .er . . .action. The terminal is filling up fast. A Chinese girl is discussing boyfriend matters with her companion, probably Chinese too, but he couldn't be sure. An Indian couple sit quietly, the woman is small and bird-like, clad in loose pantaloons and a long tunic, with a lot of gold jewelry. Jeans-clad students, quite comfortable on the floor spread out the contents of their backpacks. He strains to see what they have-books, playing cards, candy bars. An Israeli mountain-climbing team--the brands of their equipment are printed in Hebrew. He cannot read Hebrew, but he recognizes the lettering.

He hears a soft thud and notices that a paperback has slid from her lap onto the floor. He picks it up and hands it to her. "Your book," he says with a smile. Now's your chance, don't waste it. "You going to L.A.?"

He stares at her finely-sculpted face. She's gorgeous. She nods and says, "I've been away two weeks and can't wait to get home."

Home to a husband? "I know what you mean," he says in a confidential tone, leaning forward a little. "Nice to travel, but it's nicer to get home." Hurry up. Think of something to say, you goon. Over the white noise in the terminal a nasal sing-song voice says," Ladies and gentlemen, the departure of Malaysia Airlines Flight 85 to Osaka is delayed by half an hour. Departure time is now 12:30 a.m."

"Bummer." He lays his Asia Today resolutely on the seat next to him. He knows he has no intention of reading it now.

"Don't you just hate that?" she says, fixing her large, green searchlights on him. There are people sitting around them but they seem like so many giant-sized dumplings, when all he can see is this sleek package in front of him. "I've had a long day. Had to fly in from Ipoh."

"Really?" he says, staring into her eyes for a nanosecond. Don't make it too obvious, especially if there is a chance. Of what? "Been a week of meetings and negotiations and I'm ready to sleep twenty-four hours straight."

"What do you do?" She lays the magazine on her lap, ready to toss it aside for him. Make the most of it. Don't blow it.

"Put our stamp of ownership on a group of hospitals. I'm a member of the Board." It's tossed off lightly in a mellow tone, nothing fancy or braggy. If nothing else, he has class. He can't tell if she's impressed.

She looks around. "It's interesting observing people at an airport terminal."

"Oh? Why?"

"Each one has a loaded life-full of family, occupations, friends, and yet there's a lost look about them when they travel." She flicks her fingers through long, coppery hair left loose on her shoulders. What must it look like splayed on a pillow in subdued bedroom lighting! "Take that guy there." She nods in the direction of a man in jeans and a black body profile T-shirt. "He's sitting staring into space. Sometimes he fidgets with his bag or newspaper. He must have a wife or a girlfriend at home, yet he seems so alone here." She is really into this analysis thing.

"Are you a psychologist of some kind?"

"No. Just a people-watcher."

Then she could probably tell that he has a wife, kids, the whole shebang, and as soon as she figures all that out, she probably won't talk to him.

"You, for instance . . .," she begins.

His heart starts slamming. Brace yourself, here it comes.

"You're single. With your power career you have no time for a family--ergo . . ." Her voice, soft and silky, trails away.

He scores this round. He wants to see how long he can keep up the chatter before one of them falls by the wayside.

Too late. Something she's reading grabs her interest. What is it? Women's fashion? How to catch a man? She wouldn't have an iota of trouble in that department. Which brings him to the question that just pops into his mind. Is she married?

Maybe he should get up and walk around? What? And give up his seat near her? Not a chance.

The security personnel are letting in more passengers and the terminal is packed tighter than sticks in a match box.

"The flight's full," he says half to himself.

She looks up, glances languidly behind her and nods. And then goes back to her magazine. He wants to ask her which row her seat is on, but doesn't want it to sound like a come-on. Wait, since she's sitting near him, chances are, when embarking, he'll be directly behind her. That would be the time to ask her if, maybe he could help her with her carry-on or something.

"Now boarding Malaysia Airlines Flight 85. Passengers with small children and Gold Club members first, please."

Gold Club member. That's him. Just when he might have had a chance to make some headway with her.

"Afraid I have to go." He aims a soulful look at her. "I thought if we were sitting together, we could pass the time chatting." Or something else. Even the stewardesses would have to stop walking up and down the aisles and settle down sometime on a long flight.

She settles her great, green eyes on him. She's finally waking up to the fact that maybe he has clout in his business. "Oh, that's all right," she says with a smile. "My seat is 46, way in the back."

He's disappointed that she's so brave about it.

"So long." He grabs his carry-on and walks toward the gate, his boarding pass sticking out of his shirt pocket.

He doesn't see her during the flight or at the airport at Osaka. He hurries to exchange dollars for yen-needing a shower and a shave. He's packed a clean set of clothes in his hand baggage.

Shaved and showered, at last, he can handle the next leg of his flight, the one to L.A. He can do without food, but not sleep or a shower. He finds the terminal and sinks into a seat to wait for his next flight, lulled by the soothing shower and pleased with the aroma of his aftershave-Pierre Cardin, which Eileen had picked out for him.

"Hello."

He looks up. There she is again. This time, she's wearing a short black skirt and a beige silk blouse, smelling of some enticing lavender perfume.

There's a seat next to him on which he's propped his carry-on. He removes it, hoping she'll sit there. But she takes a seat two spaces down, so now he can studying her profile. Perfect, like a young Elizabeth Taylor. He can't help gawking like a hormone-stricken schoolboy. Do they make gems of perfection like her anymore? Eileen, the ultimate haus frau and pillar of society, is no beauty. Still, it hasn't been a bad marriage. Oh, he's strayed a few times but has always made it back to the welcoming fold of hearth and home.

"I wondered where you went," she says.

Good. She's noticed him.

"I badly needed a shower."

"Me too," she says. "I hate these long flights. You're nearly two days older when you arrive."

He laughs. He likes her outrageous observation. "What bothers me is the lack of sleep."

"In your cabin? Pampered as you are?"

He wants to say I'd give it all up to sit near you and who knows what might follow?

"Meals served with white clothe napkins do not constitute pampering," he says. "Or complimentary alcoholic beverages."

"But more leg room sure does," she replies. "I have trouble during take-offs and landings." Her eyes are wide as though remembering her fear of them.

Here's his chance to throw in a flirty remark. "You need someone to hold your hand during take-offs and landings. That's the best cure." His mind is working furiously to keep his marital status unmentioned without telling a lie. He shrugs it off mentally; he'll ignore it for now. After all, what can happen when there are at least a couple of hundred passengers as potential chaperones?

"That's sweet, but nothing will help."

Oh yes, there is, but if he told her she'd probably slap him across the face.

"It's about time for boarding." She picks up her carry-on.

In his elite Gold Club cabin he's racking his brains about how he can talk to her again--casually. So far he's come up with "Care to read this magazine?" But she wouldn't be interested in stocks and bonds. "Come and have a look at the view from the front of the aircraft." That wouldn't work either because the computerized map shows that they are somewhere over Japan--way over, so there's nothing to see.

In the end, he gives up and pushes back in his seat and submits himself to thirteen hours of acute boredom. If he's lucky he'll dream about a date with her.

He spots her briefly standing in line at Immigration and Customs at Tom Bradley International, and again at Baggage Claim grabbing her suitcase. She says she's missing a smaller bag in which she had things for her fiancé.. Talk of being socked with a wet sandbag. And here he thought she liked him but was holding back because of diffidence.

But there it is--the errant suitcase, whizzing down the conveyor belt. She grabs it and, the next minute, she's gone. He misses the moment of her exit, when his gaze is glued to the black leather flaps that will eventually reveal his suitcase. No time for a last-ditch-effort smile and wave because his suitcase could well tumble by, and he'd have to wait another round at Baggage Claim. What he and this woman had was a brief encounter that might have blossomed into possibilities if they had met elsewhere, like at a conference. But theirs is a moment caught in between interruptions; a prism of light trapped in a too-small box and then let go.

Squawky announcements shoot from the PA system from time to time, like a nagging older sister or brother--do this, do that. They make him feel he's done something wrong even when he hasn't. He wonders why airports are such hot, sweaty places that render you irritable for no apparent reason. Eileen and the boys are waiting at Ground Transportation, the boys waving madly at him and Eileen with an unusually bright smile on her face. The lady with the coppery hair is nowhere in sight. Good, he can put on his domestic persona, the one he plays so well.

Stashing his luggage in the trunk of his car he has the strange notion somebody is staring at the back of his neck. He turns around and there she is-the dreamboat. But a harsh glint in her eyes tells him she thinks he's worse than scum. Oh yeah? What about her? Well, she didn't exactly come on to him. Of course, she did--not overtly, perhaps, but a man always knows these things. Oh yes!

"In you get, men," he says to his boys. Eileen is already in the driver's seat. He opens the door to the passenger seat, sinks into it and leans back with a smile.

"How's was your flight?" Eileen asks.

"Quiet and uneventful," he says. "The way I like it."