The summer heat, the virus, and the pox created the hyper-cluster-fk that was the (always under construction) JFK swamp she and I were dumped into from the Uber late on a Sunday evening in August. We had not gotten the news flash. The traffic into the airport told the story over the last twenty minutes it took to go the last mile.
She kissed me standing in the back of Alaska Airlines’ “needs assistance” line that snaked out of the maze of belt lines and a few hundred feet down the terminal. “Just be glad we’re not flying Spirit or Jet Blue,” she said. “They’re canceling flights.”
She pulled me into an intimate hug, “We‘re screwed.”
“But, we’re together. It could be worse.”
“If they give us that offer to take a later flight, we should take it.”
“Do you think there’s a Cinnabon in here?” I asked.
The long weekend had gone okay, but something wasn’t right. We kissed a lot and screwed a lot, but some element was missing, like some fundamental connection that was still obscured. Her adventurousness in the bedroom was intoxicating and concerning. She kept referring to her “story” on Fetlife. She wanted me to read her writing.
Earlier this morning, I asked, “Is there some information you are trying to introduce into this relationship by showing me that stuff?”
“No,” she said.
“I don’t think I’m going to get into ‘the lifestyle.’”
“It’s my creative story, that I want to share.” It wasn’t the first or even the fifth time, she wanted to share the kinky-Facebook website with me. She liked to flaunt her sexual liberation and racy ideas about future sexual adventures.
An enticement that never came to fruition, unfortunately, as we broke up about four hours into our six-hour trek through JFK’s dysfunctional mess.
Read more Short-Short Stories from John.