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New York City, New York, United States
i am taking a writing class in nyc. these are my assignments. although it's fiction & poetry, these stories could be about you. everything comes from somewhere, right?

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Assignment 8 based on Graham Greene, "Two Gentle People" - 3rd Person Narrator, scene in which two people interact and don't know each other

La Guardia was especially busy that Wednesday before Thanksgiving, passengers angry and yelling at airline employees, questioning their control over the weather. People were hustling to their destination gates, pulling and yanking and adjusting the luggage they opted not to check due to the absurd extra costs. Small children were behaving like drunk adults, pushing boundaries, crying for their mommies and spitting up food. The air conditioner vents were working extra hard to pump and distribute the iciest air they could sift out of their tiny frames. And there they were. Both seated in Terminal 8B, resting in back to back seats. One of her long, black strands of hair had initiated its way and woven itself into his Ralph Lauren, ivory linen shirt. The hair would stay attached until his maid would find his shirt crumpled in the corner of his closet floor two weeks later and send it to the dry cleaners.
She was uneasy, something about lifting off the stable ground without an anchor had always really bothered her. She was grateful she had used her extra miles to upgrade to first class, especially in this nightmare. She would consume their “free” alcohol until she was able to drink an anchor into existence. Her average and freckled legs, adorned in nothing but the shortest of denim cut-off shorts, were dug, self-consciously, under her body, seeking warmth. She was expending her nervous energy by twiddling her thumbs, breaking the monotony every so often to turn a page in the December issue of Elle which she endured with the most wistful eyes. She sipped her diet coke with a straw washing down leftover vomit sprinkled in her mouth. She flipped her lengthy, fine hair, sending another lone strand in his direction but alas, it glided past him, onto an empty seat. He, of course, was too busy to notice a single strand of anything, his eyes buried in his blackberry, work haunting him on this beginning of a supposed vacation.
He was sweating, miniscule drips forming throughout his slight and tidy beard, drips lining the crest of his forehead below his wavy brown hair, touched by strokes of distinguished grey. He cursed his fingers for being too large and quickly realized the mistake and cursed his blackberry keys for being too small. He tugged on his khaki pants, suctioning the air and quickly releasing it, creating a draft over his muscular, toned legs, the legs of a chronic runner. He longed for their flight to take off, when he could finally sit back as a preferred member, drink a beer and politely follow the hot, they were always hot in first class, flight attendant’s instructions to turn off all electronic devices.
“Attention passengers of flight 2214 out of La Guardia, your flight has been delayed…” Both of their heads turned toward the speaker attached to the ceiling over their seats, searching for the Wizard of Oz behind the stale voice, searching for more answers.
The noise around them began accelerating, whines and groans and papers rustling and feet stomping.
“Well, this is fucking ridiculous,” he stated sharply as he stood for a good stretch, looking right through her with his mud brown eyes.
“I don’t know. Not sure I want to fly in this,” she responded, facing him, flat footed, with her young, fresh face, oblivious to the man in front of her. The only evidence of distress was the hazel in her eyes, nestled in bloodshot tanks,
He simply grunted and granted her a once over, quickly deciding, despite her whoreish outfit, she’d probably recited John 3:16 at summer camp and accepted Jesus into her heart. A virgin, a nice, clean fuck.
The snow was falling outside the airport windows creating the illusion that they were encased between hazy white walls, like they were already flying, surrounded by white, cumulus clouds. He watched as she tossed her diet coke in a nearby bin. Her butt looked firm enough and was nicely framed in her shorts. He was willing to overlook the cellulite dirtying the back of her pale legs. She returned and sat on top of her red, monogrammed, “RLT”, Jon Hart luggage, a gift from her big sis in her sorority. He was still standing in the same place, when his blackberry, moved by its own vibrations, scooted off his seat and onto the floor, next to her sandaled and pedicured foot. She reached for the device and held it, the last vibration tingling in her hand.

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