"Hey ... what?"
We were walking down the concourse, holding hands, bright pink duffel over my shoulder.
"Nothing. It's silly."
"No, tell me."
It had been a long day in transit.
I had missed my connection in Denver, which meant four hours to kill in an airport that should be cooler than it is. I wouldn't be home until 10:00 with work bright and early the next morning. So I began to scheme.
If I stayed at A's place, I could grab a quick bite. Sleep in. Walk to work. He could pick me up from the airport. Carry the gigantic suitcase I brought back as a favor for the high school best friend. We could spend time together after a long six days apart.
A few book chapters and a couple of white lies later (the family is immigrant-y after all), it was settled. I texted him when I got on the plane, telling him to be early. It would be the first time someone else - not my mom or brother - would be waiting for me.
I was restless the entire flight. When the power went out at the gate in DC and my fellow passengers had to use their cell phones to search the overhead bins for their luggage, I cursed Frontier Airlines for my last row seat. The last to exit the plane, I speedwalked through the terminal, and there, just past security, I could make him out. Wavy brown hair, white undershirt, jeans. I almost skipped before falling into his arms.
I made my eyes big and laughed: "I think we're falling in love!"
He shook his head and laughed, too.
"I don't think you're silly."
We continued to walk, and then he stopped and kissed me.
That night, after we had made love, he turned to me.
"You know that thing you said at the airport ...? I agree ... I think you just caught me off-guard. Usually people say things like that at moments like these, but you're not cliche like that."
"I guess not."