"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Nothing. Nothing at all. Don't get mad, but I've got m say it. You're very beautiful, and I'm doing my best not to stare too much."
She dimpled at that, and accepted it with a wry nod.
"I can hardly believe my good fortune."
The smile faded a little. "I'm not sure how I should take that"
"What I mean is, I know anybody could see what I see in you, but I'm having a hard time understanding what you see in me."
She sat up a little straighter, and her smile faded some more. Actually, by then it was almost a frown.
"At the risk of letting you think I was feeling sorry for you, you looked lonely and depressed. You looked like you needed a friend. Well, so do I, and I don't have any. I wanted m get my mind off the things I saw today and I thought it probably wouldn't do you any harm, either. But if you -- "
"Wait, I'm sorry I said -- "
"No, let me finish. I'm not doing you any favors. And I'm not out to get anything from you. I'm not a reporter. I'm not a disaster freak. Don't talk about me like I'm your 'good fortune.' I'm me, and when I accepted your invitation it was because I was impressed at how you handled all those fools at the press conference and how you seem to be working so hard at unraveling the mistakes made by the people I work for and I thought I might like to get to know you."
She looked me up and down, clinically.
"Of course, I could have been wrong."
I hadn't until that moment thought she might have been a reporter. I still didn't think so.
But I wasn't spending a lot of time worrying about it one way or the other, as all I could see just then was something beautiful in danger of being wrecked by my suspicions.
"I wish I hadn't said that," I said.
"Well, you did." She sighed, and looked away from me. "Maybe I did come down on you a bit hard."
"I was asking for it."
"It's been a hard day." She looked at her second drink. She tossed it down. I did the same, hoping her opinion of her own capacity for liquor was close to the truth. It wouldn't be much fun if she got sloppy drunk.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"You're certainly direct."
"It saves time."
"I'm forty-four."
"Good God," she said. "Were you worried that I was too young for you? Is that what you couldn't figure out?"
"Part of it."
"I'm thirty-three: Does that make you feel better?"
"Yeah, I figured you for twenty-six." That wasn't quite true. When I first saw her I thought she was a lot younger, and later I thought she might be a little older. Twenty-six was splitting the difference.
"I wish I could just wipe out the last couple minutes and start all over with you," I told her.
"I'm willing." She lit another cigarette from the butt of the one she had been smoking. It was the only thing about her I didn't like, but you can't have everything.
"You were right about me," I said. It wasn't as hard to say as I'd thought it would be. "I am lonely, and I've been depressed. Or I was. I felt a lot better as soon as you bumped into me."
"Even with coffee in your lap?"
"I meant later; on the escalator -- "
She reached over the table and touched my hand.
"I know what you meant. I hate airports in strange towns. You feel so anonymous. All those people."
"Especially this time of the year."
"I know. They're all frowning. It's better out at the gates. People are happier out there, meeting the people they came to pick up. But I hate to work the main terminal. Everybody's in a hurry, and there are always computer problems. Reservations getting lost ... you know."
I felt a chill there. What if she was a reporter? "When they pulled me off the ticket desk and sent me out to the hangar I was almost relieved, can you imagine that? I mean, after they promised me there wouldn't be any dead bodies out there."
I didn't say anything. If she wanted horror stories, this was the time to ask me about them.
"But we weren't going to talk about work," she said. "Except I would like to know how a man who's only forty-four years old came to have such a sad face."
"I put it together here and there over the years. But you don't want to hear about that."
So that's exactly what we talked about: my life and hard times. I tried to stop myself but it was no good. I didn't get weepy about it, thank all the gods, and beyond a certain point and a terrain number of drinks I can't recall exactly what I did say except I'm sure it wasn't about the details of my work. At least we stuck to that part of the agreement. Mostly I told her about what the job was doing to me. About what had happened to my marriage, about waking up with a fear of falling, and the dream where I'm moving through this long dark tunnel full of flashing lights.
The drinks didn't hurt anything. By the time dinner came we'd each had quite a few, and I was feeling as relaxed and unguarded as I ever get. There's a wonderful feeling of release in talking about things you've held inside too long.
But when the food arrived I calmed down enough to realize what we'd been having could hardly be called a conversation. Her part in it had been to provide the ears and a sympathetic comment or two.
"So how do you like your job?" I asked, and she laughed. I met her eyes for a moment, and saw no reproach there. "Listen, I'm sorry I've been carrying on tike this."
"Hush and eat your dinner. I don't mind listening. I told you, I thought you looked like you needed a friend."
"You said you did, too. I haven't been a very good one so far."
"You needed to talk worse than I did. I'm flattered that you chose me to talk to. I must have an honest face, or something."
"Or something."
I'd almost forgotten what it was like, feeling good about myself, and I was grateful. So I asked her about herself and she told me a few things while we ate.
Her father had a lot of money. She had a degree in art from some college back east. She hadn't grown up thinking she'd ever have to support herself. She married the right guy, who turned out to be not so right after all. She left him and had been trying to make it on her own.
There'd been a miscarriage.
I gathered the art career was a failure. She'd been shocked to discover how hard it was to make a living, but she did not want to return to her father. He kept sending her gifts that she didn't have the will power to refuse, like the car outside.
She told the whole story very glibly, and finished up before the dessert came. Every time I asked for a detail she had it ready. It was fascinating, really, because about halfway through the story I realized I didn't believe a word of it.
You know what? I didn't give a shit. By then I had a pleasant glow that was a long way from being drunk but felt very nice indeed. She'd matched me drink for drink and, as far as I could see, was completely sober.
"Can you fly?" I asked her.
She looked startled, then suspicious.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. I just thought you could."
"I've flown small planes.
"I thought so."
She'd hardly touched her dessert. Come to think of it, she'd hardly touched anything, though the food was excellent. And she'd smoked all the time. She'd gone through one pack and put a dent in another.
I started to think about riding back to the airport with her in that rolling bomb. And I wondered why she'd lied to me. Don't ask me how I knew she had been lying; I knew.
"Can you take me home?" I said.
"I don't know if anyone can do that, Bill. I'll try."
She did all right. Maybe she'd realized my terror on the way to the restaurant, because she slowed down considerably.
Then I was dropped off in front of the hotel, like a coed at the dorm. I felt, a little funny about it, but I figured I shouldn't come on too heavy. I expected to see her in the morning, anyway.