I sit for a while on the sofa in the airport lounge as I hear the grating voice
of a flight attendant over the loudspeakers, informing me that this is the last
call for the flight to Bruges. I close my eyes, and, as if by magic, I’m back in
the café where we first met. I can vividly see the inviting arch of flowers and
macarons at the entrance. And there you were, in front of the computer, with
a lock of hair falling lightly over your eyes. I can see the movement of your
slender fingers, smoothing that same strand, and as you did so, our gazes met
for the first time. Like an electric touch, I looked away and sat down at a table
far away from you. But close enough that I could discreetly observe you.
As soon as my Chai Latte arrived, you plucked up the courage and, without
asking, sat down opposite me. I could finally see your hazel-coloured eyes up
close and how perfect your smile was. I remember running my hand along the
velvet of the chair I was sitting in, and your gaze following the movement I
had just made. Once again, you took the initiative and placed your cold hand
on my warm one. I remember alluding to the coldness of brass; you to the
delicacy of velvet.
I’m brought back to reality by the man in front of me. Was he also being
flooded with memories of the city we were flying to? There’s something
about silence and sitting with strangers in a metal machine, leagues up and
thousands of kilometres an hour, that genuinely fascinates me. Among others,
this is one of the things you’ll never know about me, my dear H.
