La Petite Fleur

Clément

Jitters. Steve could feel only jitters. His eyes shifted to the direction of every sudden noise, every loud voice, every foreign language. Around him, everything was alive. The air was charged with intangible electricity as well as the metallic blue shocks he received every time someone bumped his shoulders. Curse this dry weather, he thought. But at least Antoinette would have good weather to fly in. No storms, no squalls, no scares- just smooth skies from Paris to Port Washington. At least...for the time being. He'd seen in the newspaper and on the news that a storm was moving quickly from the Midwest to New York. Still, no inclement weather impeded flights from across the Atlantic.

Steve had spent much of the late morning at the airport, waiting, pacing, worrying, and waiting more. When? When would her flight land? Where? Where would he lay eyes on her for the first time since she had cursed him from the hospital? Would she be there at all? Would she accept his apology? What would she say? Would she speak to him? Would she be afraid? Angry? Aloof?

He could only worry...and wait.

The discordant smells and sounds of the airport infiltrated his brain, intoxicated his senses, inundated his thinking and reasoning. Constantly, he wavered between worrying over Antoinette and worrying over the city. Attacks had become frequent. No longer were the Avengers handling battles the government couldn't fight, but also major fires and emergencies. What heroes would they be if they spent half their time sitting around? The warbling of an Italian woman calling for her grandchildren distracted him, but didn't hold his attention for long. From his right, a ski team sliced their way through the crowd, carrying their bagged skis over their shoulders. In their wake, an Asian family with three toddlers elbowed toward the restrooms.

Life. So much life and energy. It surged in the cavernous airport, rebounded along the tiled floors, and teased the jet-lagged minds fighting just to call a cab. But Steve felt dead. His hands were as still as he had been trained to keep them. His weight did not shift foot to foot or heel to toe in nervousness. His eyes did not leave the window. With the concentration of a hunter, a sniper, a bombardier, he did not waver from his vigil. Hours passed and his feet did not move but to trace the path to the restroom and back again to the window. He refused to sit. No, he would rather wait with as much attentiveness as Penelope waited for Odysseus to return from his absence at war. Antoinette had been fighting a war of her own, and Steve was left to wait, wondering if she would return at all, or if his patience was in vain.

As he stared out the large windows, a plane began to taxi toward the empty runway. It halted, turned, began to crawl forward, gaining speed and momentum until the wings strained to lift the craft. With a graceful tilt, it rose into the air and disappeared into the grey sky. The wake of disturbed air behind it stirred heaps of glittering, powdery snow into whirls, sparkling in the weak sunlight, dancing over the asphalt. Like raging waves on the North Sea, the snow spun into the air, crashed back to the earth, only to be caught again and swept in undulating ripples toward the miniature workers in neon vests. The snow teased the bland, iron-colored surroundings with its purity and dazzling whiteness. It laughed, played, danced- danced with the exuberance he had seen on the stage when Antoinette performed.

Antoinette. If she was coming at all, she would be there soon. The screen behind Steve displayed a chart of dizzying colors and names, cities, flight numbers, and times. Some rows were red to designate cancellations, others were yellow to indicate delays. Paris to New York was still blue. Where was she? On the plane? On the ground? On stage in Paris, practicing until her thoughts were consumed wholly with ballet?

Steve was unaware that she stood in the terminal exit at the far end of the room. Her petite frame was hidden behind families,  business partners, sports teams, travel bloggers, and the occasional lone tourist. When she hefted her backpack onto her shoulder, the action seemed to set her feet in motion. She had decided to come. There was no turning back.