In Boston St Valentine's Day Is an Irish Holiday
Chapter 1
Have you ever been walking down a corridor, met someone’s eyes, and felt an instant connection? A spark flares in your chest, your body wakes up, and you just know they felt it too.
It doesn’t have to be a corridor. It can happen while briskly walking across an airport concourse, weaving through a shopping mall, or crossing the main level of a stadium. Wherever it occurs, the experience is the same: that sudden spark of recognition, the flutter of excitement deep inside, the full-body awareness, and the unmistakable certainty that the other person feels it too.
As you both turn to look back while passing, your eyes meet again and you trade a small smile before continuing on. Even then, a part of you wishes you’d stopped, said something, asked for a number. Later, you think about it and wince at how easily the moment slipped away. For all you know, that person might have been someone important, lost simply because you were in a hurry to get somewhere.
That had been me that day. I was rushing across the main concourse of Chicago’s O’Hare Airport when I saw the woman who sparked that reaction in me, and the worst part was that I recognized her. It was Eira, the Irish fashion model. The most widely recognized and photographed model in the world. Six feet of classic Irish beauty: red hair, green eyes, a creamy complexion, and freckles scattered across her face, especially along the bridge of her nose. And that smile she gave me was simply ... wow.
At the marketing firm where I worked, every man from my boss down to the mailroom clerks was smitten. Whenever she appeared in print, the magazines in the break room somehow ended up open to her pages.
Wait until I tell the guys back at the office that I saw her at the airport in Chicago. No one would believe me. They would think I made it up. I would just tell them she looked even better in person than in the magazines. But the part about her looking at me and smiling? That I would keep to myself. That had been a private moment.
My time in Chicago proved to be profitable. The account I had come to make a presentation, signed with us. Because of the rapport I had built with them, I was named the account representative. I would receive a nice commission and bonus as compensation for landing them. That money would come in handy, as I wanted to find a house in the suburbs. I wasn’t a city-center type of person. An apartment in the city was convenient, but it wasn’t for me. I loved open, green space too much.
As a reward for a job well done, the agency upgraded my ticket from the cheap seats in the back to first class. I would be flying back to Boston without having my knees tucked under my chin, no longer forced to fold my six-foot frame like an accordion.
A day later, I was sitting in first class on the plane back to Boston, waiting for the rest of the passengers to board. My head was back, eyes closed, as I practiced deep breathing exercises to calm myself, just as my therapist had recommended. I wasn’t mentally unstable; I simply had anxiety about flying, rooted in an incident from my college days.
On a flight from Orlando, Florida back to Philadelphia, where I’m originally from, the plane hit turbulence so severe that some passengers and flight attendants were thrown around and injured. For a while, it was touch-and-go, and I was certain we were going down, that this was the end. Fortunately, the flight crew managed to get us out of the turbulence. When we arrived in Philadelphia, ambulances were waiting to take the injured passengers for medical care. Ever since that flight, flying has been an extremely anxiety-provoking experience for me.
I sat there with my eyes closed, practicing my breathing exercises. The routine involved slow, steady breaths in and out, timed to an eight-count rhythm. Physiologically, the technique helped slow my heart rate. I checked my pulse, and it was working. My heart rate was normal, and I didn’t feel particularly anxious.
I heard someone slide into the seat across from me, but I didn’t look up. I wanted to stay focused on my relaxation exercises until the plane took off and avoid any distractions.
The plane was still boarding when I heard another person approach and stop near my seat.
“Hey sweet thing.” the person standing near my seat said to the passenger across the aisle. “How about a drink when we get to Boston? Then we can see where the night takes us.”
“Even I thought it was a lousy pickup line, and flirting with women was definitely not my strong suit.
“I already told you in the passenger lounge I wasn’t interested. Will you just leave me alone?” snapped an exasperated woman with a thick Irish accent.
Romeo must not have gotten the hint, because I heard the woman cry out in pain. “Let go of me arm!”
I opened my eyes to see what was happening. A man stood in the aisle, holding the arm of the woman across from me. Her skin was bright red under his fingers, the pressure so strong it was sure to leave a nasty bruise.
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