K
Kate
Guest
CYBER SPACE
The arrivals screen told me the plane was delayed by 40 minutes – it had been 45 minutes since that update. I glanced at my watch – nearly 6.30 a.m. I paced around the arrivals lounge, apprehension building with each passing minute. Was it getting hotter in here, or was it just me? We last spoke a few days ago when he left Birmingham. Will he be the sensitive romantic poet I’ve come to know over the last three years through a Brummie web forum? Over the months of chatting on screen and exchanging witty remarks he began phoning, usually in the early hours pre-dawn as I lay in my solitary bed unable to sleep. He was charming and sexy to talk to and I found from the photos he emailed to me that I also found him very attractive. I’d sent him photos of myself of course, but they were ones chosen to show me at my best – deliberately hiding any warts and bumps. Now would be exposed in all my ordinariness and I was terrified.
I mentally ticked off the preparations I had made at home. The spare bed was made up and I had made room in the wardrobe for his clothes. I’d given the house a good spring clean and put fresh flowers in the vases. I’d mowed my small patch of lawn and weeded and trimmed my usually overgrown garden. I’d washed the dog. All for a man I’d never met.
My heart jolted as I saw passengers filing through to the arrivals lounge looking tired and rumpled. Some wore the British version of tropical wear – the now dated safari suit. Perhaps it was back in fashion in the UK. Suddenly he was standing in front of me. He had no trouble recognizing me obviously. I wore my most flattering three-quarter slacks and silk top, a deep strawberry colour, and my most uncomfortable high heeled sandals that made me look taller and slimmer. He was shorter than I had imagined from his photos. He smiled at me and we both began talking at once.ÂÂ
How was the flight…?ÂÂ
Sorry you had to wait – the plane was late leaving Singapore.
Let’s get your luggage. You must be starving!
No, they feed you every five minutes on these flights.
The next 30 minutes are a blur to me as we waited for his luggage and hauled it off to my car, which was right at the back of the small airport car park. He stowed his bags in my small boot and we chatted self-consciously as I drove to my little cottage on the fringe of Hobart city. My little home looked welcoming and cheery as we parked outside – I was pleased I had made the effort in the front garden. He had told me he was a keen gardener and I wanted to impress him with my show of annuals I’d planted – pansies, marigolds and snapdragons – all white and yellow blooms which complemented the cottage’s blue and cream paintwork. As we walked through my front door I was laughing at his story about the old lady who thought the man sitting next to her on the plane was a terrorist. It turned out the man, who was of Middle Eastern appearance, was a Catholic priest on his way to a seminar, but the old girl wasn’t convinced and kept ranting about the plane being blown out of the air at any minute.
It was starting to heat up and I could see we would be in for a scorcher as the day progressed. But it was cool inside the old cottage. It had been built in the late eighteen hundreds when Hobart was a small settlement full of convicts sent here for the pettiest of crimes – an easy way to populate the colonies! My own great-great-great grandfather had been one of these convicts and I was proud of my heritage. My mother however was from a generation of Tasmanians who were deeply ashamed to have convict ancestry and did everything they could to hide it.
He didn’t seem to notice my garden or my lovely old home. I showed him through to my spare room, indicated the wardrobe space and where the bathroom was and left him to freshen up. I felt a bit weak in the knees as I filled the kettle and prepared to make tea – I knew he liked his strong and black. I got out a peppermint teabag for myself – caffeine just kept me awake these days – peppermint might calm me down right now.
I hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen and I felt his arms around me and turned to face him. His hands were moist and hot against my thin shirt. He was murmuring how long he had been waiting for this moment and I felt the heat rush through my body, awakening feelings I had long forgotten. His mouth came closer to mine and our lips met, his tongue probing.
Aaagh – his breath was foul!
*******************************************************************************
All characters in this piece are fictitious - honestly
The arrivals screen told me the plane was delayed by 40 minutes – it had been 45 minutes since that update. I glanced at my watch – nearly 6.30 a.m. I paced around the arrivals lounge, apprehension building with each passing minute. Was it getting hotter in here, or was it just me? We last spoke a few days ago when he left Birmingham. Will he be the sensitive romantic poet I’ve come to know over the last three years through a Brummie web forum? Over the months of chatting on screen and exchanging witty remarks he began phoning, usually in the early hours pre-dawn as I lay in my solitary bed unable to sleep. He was charming and sexy to talk to and I found from the photos he emailed to me that I also found him very attractive. I’d sent him photos of myself of course, but they were ones chosen to show me at my best – deliberately hiding any warts and bumps. Now would be exposed in all my ordinariness and I was terrified.
I mentally ticked off the preparations I had made at home. The spare bed was made up and I had made room in the wardrobe for his clothes. I’d given the house a good spring clean and put fresh flowers in the vases. I’d mowed my small patch of lawn and weeded and trimmed my usually overgrown garden. I’d washed the dog. All for a man I’d never met.
My heart jolted as I saw passengers filing through to the arrivals lounge looking tired and rumpled. Some wore the British version of tropical wear – the now dated safari suit. Perhaps it was back in fashion in the UK. Suddenly he was standing in front of me. He had no trouble recognizing me obviously. I wore my most flattering three-quarter slacks and silk top, a deep strawberry colour, and my most uncomfortable high heeled sandals that made me look taller and slimmer. He was shorter than I had imagined from his photos. He smiled at me and we both began talking at once.ÂÂ
How was the flight…?ÂÂ
Sorry you had to wait – the plane was late leaving Singapore.
Let’s get your luggage. You must be starving!
No, they feed you every five minutes on these flights.
The next 30 minutes are a blur to me as we waited for his luggage and hauled it off to my car, which was right at the back of the small airport car park. He stowed his bags in my small boot and we chatted self-consciously as I drove to my little cottage on the fringe of Hobart city. My little home looked welcoming and cheery as we parked outside – I was pleased I had made the effort in the front garden. He had told me he was a keen gardener and I wanted to impress him with my show of annuals I’d planted – pansies, marigolds and snapdragons – all white and yellow blooms which complemented the cottage’s blue and cream paintwork. As we walked through my front door I was laughing at his story about the old lady who thought the man sitting next to her on the plane was a terrorist. It turned out the man, who was of Middle Eastern appearance, was a Catholic priest on his way to a seminar, but the old girl wasn’t convinced and kept ranting about the plane being blown out of the air at any minute.
It was starting to heat up and I could see we would be in for a scorcher as the day progressed. But it was cool inside the old cottage. It had been built in the late eighteen hundreds when Hobart was a small settlement full of convicts sent here for the pettiest of crimes – an easy way to populate the colonies! My own great-great-great grandfather had been one of these convicts and I was proud of my heritage. My mother however was from a generation of Tasmanians who were deeply ashamed to have convict ancestry and did everything they could to hide it.
He didn’t seem to notice my garden or my lovely old home. I showed him through to my spare room, indicated the wardrobe space and where the bathroom was and left him to freshen up. I felt a bit weak in the knees as I filled the kettle and prepared to make tea – I knew he liked his strong and black. I got out a peppermint teabag for myself – caffeine just kept me awake these days – peppermint might calm me down right now.
I hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen and I felt his arms around me and turned to face him. His hands were moist and hot against my thin shirt. He was murmuring how long he had been waiting for this moment and I felt the heat rush through my body, awakening feelings I had long forgotten. His mouth came closer to mine and our lips met, his tongue probing.
Aaagh – his breath was foul!
*******************************************************************************
All characters in this piece are fictitious - honestly
