My Story Follows...The Unlikely Meeting. - SATIRE
The Ending was baked into the cookie from the start. I realize that now. Only the crumbs remain. How delicious, however, even considering the misfortune.
Enjoy your light Café au lait in the airport? Apparently there wasn't time. We would not be among the leisurely awaiting your flight, your departure. We had our collision before your chance to queue at your assigned gate. Then, opportunity struck like a bolt.
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Meanwhile, avoid reading about the market. Fashion my dear, that will always be your passion. I don't have to tell you. Unless it's the market of ideas you crave, the ideas of beauty will suffice. I'm judging by what I've found. I've got the evidence.
I will not regret the conversation we wouldn't have had time for, as it turned out, anyway. We met, albeit briefly. I'll always have that; an instant.
Consider cashing out. Of your enterprise I mean. Don't concern yourself with the money left on the table. Although there's a lot of it. The numbers just don't add up. I could see why you were in such a hurry to get on with your flight.
It's off. The wild blue yonder and cumulous clouds are how I will always picture it, with you in your seat in the upright and locked position. And how I will always picture you! Perhaps peering out the window with the plane nearly perpendicular to the Earth. Flight was always a human passion with the tincture of the divine as the sun sets upon the clouds.
I shall picture you in red, with your permission.
"Always" is a funny word, but not in a good sense.
You are flying to that island nation, far from The States, far from the problems. You never said as much, hardly had the opportunity, however, I've got the evidence. Also, I know your Gate Number. The whole world knows your destination.
You will figure it out shortly.
But what about us, you may be thinking, as you pout. That always, will, never be your response. How's that? For ever?
Well, now, don't pout my dear. That will never be you. That's never. And besides, pouting causes premature aging.
The lines. Always the lines. That and the number, the Gate, the bottom line.
I am returning to NYC. It's decided. It was...my decision. The expression in an instant, visual, profound glance, and invitation and a blow.
How delightful our chance meeting. Accidental? Possibly not; literally bumping into each other, knocking over our carry-ons, and gathering our respective belongings hastily afterward, our personal items spilled upon the floor, about our persons. And then the critical matter, the nearly identical black-leather briefcases momentarily left on the floor besides us. How do they say, busy hands make devil's work - something like that.
What a clatter, while awkwardly apologizing for not paying attention. Where we were going? - onlookers not staring, nor acknowledging, careful to not engage in life around them, a populace surrounded by security; the stasis, the chains.
But still we felt self conscious. Or, at least, I do. As I guess the guessable password: password123, and view a spreadsheet filled with someone else's numbers. Impossible! By the way, I don't even like this kind of computer. Not my style at all!
I'm glad we could have this little chat. We met in an airport, and now we've departed in one.
Stopping at the Coffee Shop, at the edge of the foot-traffic, Beyond it all, your words, not mine. "Oh, my God! - I have to get going! That was my announcement. I can't believe the time!
Assuming your business isn't a total scam, it will never work, my bronzed beauty. But, you've got the crypto-Ponzi, angle; looks and brains all in one body. Does it all add up in the end?
I grab the supple leather, never thinking, same weight, same feel, same as always. However, the meeting will never be undone, one cannot unlearn the truth. Does the serpent hand me the apple?
Trade in your chips while you've got them. My advice, you will never take. You've still got the numbers in your head. You nod in agreement. I've got the angle - you say. It's the thrill, it's all about... the Sirens of a Mediterranean Sea, the waves of Morocco. My fortune is on the roulette wheel.
The waves erase the footprints on the beach of an island nation.
Well, we know it's business, not pleasure!
Time itself is silent. It is us who scream the past.
Relax, and enjoy the trip. I'm glad we could finally chat; come to an understanding.
Your flight number is announced. And you snatch the wrong bag. Ha-ha! Luckily you've got your tickets. At Least, I can't find them, even now, and I've been through this leather bag with a fine-toothed comb, turned it upside-down, contents falling out.
But never like before.
I noticed your reflection, you standing in line, a physique one finds in sculptures, your silhouette in the curtain wall of glass, modern architecture brings classic looks, a mystical presence among the waiting jets, a trick of the light, a ghost. Perhaps the receding past. That last look. No one noticed.
No one.
I walk...Away.
I walked away!
And now, time for bling!
*** - by James Legare, Dec. 11, 2022 **
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