I showered carefully, the soap slipping through my hands as I rubbed it over my skin, the water quickly running the suds away, the droplets pooling to collect in my bellybutton or get caught the dark thatch of my hair between my legs. I paid especial attention there, rinsing it and running my fingers along my slit, rubbing and stroking for a moment before I turned off the water, wringing the wetness from my hair. The heat had steamed up the mirror, and I passed my hand over it to briefly show myself in the reflection, turning to admire the sleekness of my body, overly skinny yet lacking in the unsightly pudge that showed on most women's. I was not gorgeous, yet I had distinctive features; small, firm breasts with small nipples rising prominently, my waist slim, before widening further into shapely hips. The sheen of sweat made my body glisten, as I toweled off, slipping out into my bedroom and pulling on my panties and bra.
My hair was still damp, and I finger-combed it, then pulled a comb through it to sort out the wet strands, staring at myself in the mirror as I used the blowdryer and round brush to curl my hair as it dried. Stepping into my closet, I pulled on strappy dress, spaghetti-straps hanging it from my slim shoulders as the skirt swirled only to my knees. I did my make-up, pouty mouth accented by a hint of rouge and gloss, mascara, and a touch of blush to bring out the flush of my cheeks. Grabbing my purse, I was ready.
In the car, they were playing Frank Sinatra. I listened, finger-snapping occasionally as I took the long drive to the airport. Pushing through the throng, I glanced at the paper in my purse, finding my way to the gate. Five minutes, and the plane was scheduled to arrive. It was early, though; I stayed in my seat facing the exit the passengers were to come through, and watched fixedly, scanning each face as they came out with their carry-on's.
He was there, abruptly, glancing around with the same searching look, and finding me just as I found him. I mouthed his name questioningly, and he nodded, before abruptly -- I was out of the chair and running towards him, unmindful of the stares. Non-descript; he wasn't my typical idea of a dream-man, yet it was /him/, and because he was him, he /was/ my dream-man. Convoluted logic, but that wasn't what was on my mind as I wrapped my arms about his neck, surprised at his strength as he easily lifted me. "Mark! Oh god, I can't believe it's you," I could only sputter, pushing myself closely agagainst him, my cheek pressed against his chest. I wanted to stay there forever, caught up in his arms, safe, protected -- and above all, with him. Finally, I drew back gently, looking into his eyes, suddenly losing myself in their dark brown.
"It's me, Susan. It's me." I loved his voice; for the past few years, all I'd known of him were his voice, and his personality. I could feel it in my arms as he spoke, a soft vibration from his neck even before I heard the actual words; they sent a shiver through me, and undoubtedly, he felt it in his hold on me. Turning my head up, he stroked his finger gently against my cheek, tracing my jaw lightly, before leaning down and as I closed my eyes, kissing me tenderly. It was delicate, yet sending fire all the way through my body to abruptly center about my groin; it was just amazing how he made me react just through that small kiss. He pulled back, suckling gently on my lower lip with his teeth before letting it go. I opened my eyes, letting out the breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Mark, I love you." "I love you, too."
I held his hand as we made our way to the Baggage Claim, pausing every now and then to exchange kisses.
"So, what do you think of me after all these years? Am I what you expected?" I had only been on and off with pictures of me, and I knew he hadn't seen a recent one of me.
"You're beautiful," he said simply, "And -- of course I can't expect to know what you'd look like, but you fulfill all my expectations and more."
I only squeezed his hand, and looked at him. He was serious, not joking, and all I could do was say softly, "Thank you."
I should tell you more about Mark and I. We'd met on, of all mediums, the Internet. Purely chance, that we should meet, yet it feels almost predestined that it was the smallest coincidence that had prompted me to teasingly begin to talk with him, and we should fall in love. He is four years older than I, and it was difficult to begin something at the age of thirteen; I made it through highschool, and my surprise for his birthday were plane tickets to come visit me for a week, five years after we had first met. Barely legal, at eighteen, to his twenty-two.
We drove back in near-silence. I was content to merely remain by him, to have him be there, and it didn't need conversation; he felt the same way. I just feasted my eyes on him, swallowing and trying to render into my memory every single tidbit of him, every moment I spent with him was special, something that I'd been asking years for. We pulled into my drive-way, and made our way in. I helped him with his bags, and waved to the interior. "This is my place. Make yourself at home, however you want. Your room is across from the bathroom, and down the hall from my bedroom. These are the keys to the house, and then to the car, if you ever feel like going out to explore; there's the computer if you want to log in or check your email."
I left him to unpack, going to get dinner -- pasta -- ready in the kitchen, and getting out strawberries in case he wanted any. I found him in the living room, and setting down the bowl, offered them to him. He smiled, taking them. For a moment, we were just eating, before we began talking.
"So, did you enjoy your flight?"
.... There is more of this story ...