Transit

"So, I take it you'll be at the airport. With chocolates and flowers maybe?" she smiled.

He stilled in the process of his work, casting a quick glance at her nervously.

"Well... Yes." 

He wasn't sure how she would react to that information. She had come into his life suddenly, like an explosion of sorts that he wasn't sure he was prepared for, but he had been fascinated and thankful for her continued presence, despite the fact that she was far from the ideal women he always fantasized about in his head.

Sometimes he didn't even know what she was doing with him. They were so different, and try as he might, she had shied away from all his questions, and was still wrapped in as much mystery as she had been on the first day he had met her.

He had tried many times, but every time he tried to peel away a layer, tried to find more about the woman, she had always smiled that enigmatic smile of hers and skillfully diverted the topic to other things. He had talked about his life instead, but she seemed largely disinterested.

Now things would change. His fiancée was back from overseas and he was struggling to define what they were, for without that definition he had no idea how to go on from here.

She rose blithely from the bed and stretched, her face aglow in the morning light. He admired her for a moment, admiring her litheness, her golden skin, the glossy hair tumbling down her back.

"Well, I suppose that's that," she said quite practically, and he dragged his mind away from the fantasies that had begun to inhabit it.

"That's that? What happens now? "

She turned to face him, her eyes puzzled. "I too will go to the airport."

"What? I very much doubt she wishes to see you, even if I have told her of you." The words tumbled out panicked, unexpectedly, and he saw the astonishment on her face. God, he didn't know how his fiancée would react if she met her.

"You have told her of me?" she asked, her brow knitted together in a frown. "Are you sure?"

He was sure he had mentioned it. He had tried to describe the situation to his fiancée, but it seemed that every time he did, the words seemed to slip away from his lips. Come to think of it, every time he had wished to talk about her, his mind seemed to have been plunged into a state of haziness, and he was left with the impression that she was not a secret to his friends, and to his world, although now, facing her, looking deep into her eyes, he suddenly wasn't so sure.

"I'm certain I have," although his tone lacked conviction. He stared her again. She seemed almost ethereal, at that very moment, almost like a memory that was about to slip between his fingers.

"What are you?" he whispered.

She kissed him, and he smelt flowers, some exotic fragrance that seemed oh so familiar. Intoxicating.

"Think hard, and think deep, dear one."

And then she disappreared.