Come Fly With Me (Shaking like Mingus)

Fuck!  Lena thought.

He likes human contact, I just want to kick and have a damn smoke.

Human contact, or any kind of it was really the last thing she could handle - seven thousand feet across the Atlantic.

I can barely ask 'Coffee please' without blushing; when did I decide I would fly without chemical sleep?  My ego fucked me again, I should stop putting myself on a paper pedestal just to feel the joy of falling down - she continued in writing, on a page that smelled Los Angeles in every single particle.

You really want to have human contact Mr.?  Please, come a little closer, my hands are shaking and I can't blame it on Parkinson.  Not yet at least.  Do you realize who are you talking to?  I know you like massages and I look like a darkened geisha, but my hands are tied right now, and they crave something (or someone) else.

I don't like it - Lena continued - why do I seem to like it?  I don't get aroused so easily, or do I?

No, I don't really like it - she thought a second time while trying to remember such a simple word as water in German.  

Wasser...Danke schön...she felt proud, not so much for her language skills, but because she killed the thought.  

After drinking her still wasser with no ice, she went back to Mr. humor with a twist next to her.  Her brain couldn't think straight.  His fingers were nothing like her lover's, weren't they?  

No, no man in the world had her lover's touch.  What was happening then?  

Maybe I can go from a fix to another, maybe it will calm the nerves for the next ten hours.  A vodka please, or a kiss?  No lips, they are private property, but you can have my neck if you can work your tongue.

Would you Mr.?  Because I might get a drink instead.

His hand casually touched her left leg, again, exactly where she liked it.  Her muscles were tense and hurt more than in the daily morning lotus.

Oh...I'm sorry - he apologized with a genuine and dirty smile - I like human touch.

I don't - Lena replied.

When the conversation crossed the threshold Lena grabbed her headphones and Miles Davis started playing.

Really? - She thought - Miles Davis?  He is sex.  I'm not that smart.  Stupid ego!

I'm sorry to bother you, I have to use the restrooms.

He got up and let her legs slightly touch his, just to feel her skin and smell how tired she was, through her hair in a disrupted pony tale.

Apparently her irresistible post-junkie vulnerability was a new weapon.  If only she was able to use it.

Fuck!  Human contact?

Charles Mingus always works.  

The real trial would start in 8 hours.

Human contact is not what Lena needed in that moment.  

She took a deep breath and, while still sitting on the toilet, she stopped her own hand from her personal heaven.

Hell must come first.  She knew it well.

When she went back to her seat he looked asleep.

Charles Mingus always works; she kept writing until her eyes were tired.

She fell asleep.  Human touch is not what she needed, and without poison she landed.

It was lovely to meet you - he said before walking to his connecting Gate.

Pleasure was all mine, let's not ruin it by exchanging emails.

She walked away with a smile on her face.  Gate A was just a minute from there, and she had plenty of time to smoke the first cigarette of the day and grab a quick coffee.

From there, it was all another story.