Now there’s a nice lay, he thinks to himself, as he politely sidesteps and lets her out of line so she can carry her food over to the condiment island. A flicker of a smile on her lips as she passes. A flicker, nothing more, but it’s there. He hurriedly pays for his order, not waiting for the $1.84 in change or the receipt. No time for that now. She’d smiled at him. He juggles his two trays, weaving his way through the airport crowd as he prays for an opening near her, by the ketchup pump or the napkin dispenser, at the very least. The napkins would be a stretch, but he could manage it. He’ll force his way in if he has to. He promises himself this. Well, maybe not force, but he’ll definitely say, “Excuse me,” pointedly. Definitely. She isn’t going to get away that easily, not after a smile. No way.

“Could you pass me a spork?” she asks, trying to keep her burger together with a free hand. Looking right at him. She could have picked anyone, but she’s looking right into his eyes.

Like clockwork, he mentally notes as he picks up an individually wrapped utensil and hands it over. A finger brushing hers. The slightest of intimacies, but at the moment of impact it feels as if a chorus of angels has burst into song. That might be going a little far, but it seems very similar to that. It does. People are beginning to pile up behind him, and he grabs a packet of relish for emphasis as he offers, “I hate that name, don’t you? Did they have to call it ‘spork’? I mean, why not a ‘foon’ or something equally stupid?”

“Yeah, I know.” She flashes a grin while sneaking a couple of fries.

“So … you stuck here, too?” he ventures, filling a few paper thimbles with mustard as cover while he engages.

“Yep,” she mumbles, more to herself than anything, but it allows him to lean in a bit closer. The ol’ lean-in, a classic.

“Sorry? I couldn’t hear you—that announcement,” he shouts, pointing up at the ceiling with an elbow as he says it. Another smile floats his way. Jesus, he thinks, what a pushover. She would do me right here, or in the lounge, at least, a hand job under my coat or something. No question.

“I never get a call on the courtesy phone,” she says, laughing. Not a giggle, mind you, this is a full-bodied laugh. “Not once in my adult life have I ever been called to that damned white phone! Guess I’m not very special.” And she holds eye contact the whole time. Bingo. She takes a nugget from his conversation and personalizes it. Adds a little melodramatic flourish at the end. Perfect response. Perfect.