S A U D A D E

i fall for british chris evans

      Pen on paper, the page crinkles at the weight of the ballpoint tip, crackling ever so slightly; but in the silenced and eerily empty airport, I might as well have just fired a gun shot through the wall. People turn and stare as I sheepishly shove my journal into my luggage and stab the pen across my hastily wrapped bun. Curse my stupid water bottle for leaking and drying overnight all over my notebook - the pages are now weird and have abnormal waves permanently stained into the edges. And it was a moleskin.

     People whisper silently as I anxiously flip pages through my novel. Is it the prospect that it's so noticeably early that they find the need to whisper like it's a funeral? I want to run around and sing to some good ol' Adele music.

     I look back down at my novel. It's a bad read. I'm not sure why I ever bought it from the Hudson Bookseller near my gate. Maybe just something to do. It's 2 am in the middle of New York City, and I'm ready for my premium boarding in first class on my way back to London. After traveling the world and studying for so long I'm quite thrilled to travel back home to my cozy apartment and —

     "Excuse me, is this seat taken?" a wobbly voice asks.

     I look up from Twilight and see an elderly woman smiling at me. She's inches from death - at least, she looks that fragile. But she's cute as button, so I respond, "Of course not. Sit right on down, dear," and help her into the hard backrest of the blue plastic chairs. Shifting my phone charger ever so slightly so she can reach her luggage, I smile at her, despite wondering why she chose to sit next to me when so many other seats are clearly empty.

     With another sweet old lady grin, she explains as though she's read my mind, "You look strong and brave for such a young woman. I trust you to protect me from big, bad men."

     She sounds like my little brother back at home, adopted not even a year ago, and I smile yet again, high cheekbones aching. However, I can't blame her — with my combat boots, olive green leggings, crop top tank, and nerd glasses, I guess I look a little intimidating. Kidding, kidding.

     I quickly check my phone for the time. 2 freaking 24 and they haven't even announced that it's delayed (I found out myself by asking the pretty flight attendant who eyed me disapprovingly), and I'm restless. Sighing, I place my phone precariously on the arm rest so that the charger wire can rest comfortably.

     I'm thinking about my cat and his beautiful, chocolate brown eyes, tinted with hints of copper and gold. Back at home he's probably frantic, needlessly worrying about me. He's always been like my mother, who passed away three years ago. Hysterically searching the city with the feral cats for a hint of me. I grin at the though of his wide and wise hazel eyes and although my cheekbones ache...

     suddenly, the eyes are across the room from me, crinkling at the corners with a joyous smile.

     It's a guy. And unfortunately, he decided to win the lottery of genetics and be unfairly gorgeous.

     Edges of his mouth upturned ever so slightly, I blush furiously at the revelation that I had been subconsciously staring at him. I bury my head in my hands, a heap of burning embarrassment. Stupid, stupid. But I have to look back one last time. I'll even throw in the special apologetic smile (ignoring the fact that everyone in this gate is just grinning at everything).

     Sharp, angular face, jawline etched so that it has the exactness of a diamond cutter. Those cat eyes that I actually thought were my damn cat's eyes. They're framed by thick black lenses, almost identical to mine. He's got this weirdly bent nose, like it's been broken one way more than twice. Close cropped sandy-brown hair accompanied by a pair of ears listening to music through a pair of earbuds, hopefully Adele. He's wearing a white tshirt and lose, baggy khakis...that are olive green. He's wearing Converse and they're black and I'm going to puke because this is a goddamn stranger and he looks like my twelfth cousin thirty times removed with those clothes on.