Her hand and her neck
He is pudgy in his open neck button shirt and English blazer. She resents having to be here listening to him grovel for money. She knows that she is not quite as magnetic to men as she was a year ago but the thought of having to hold on to his soft middle depresses her. Having him as the only option from which to desperately try to extract an orgasm has become the weight that pulls her down and under the waves.
She looks out of the window at the people passing by and then catches a glimpse of him; the older man on whose frame his open neck button shirt fits with purpose; not pudgy or soft but lean and direct. She watches him walk by and imagines the natural smell of his tanned skin. She imagines meeting him in an airport lounge; talking about travel, him politely avoiding telling her just how powerful he really is. She imagines him leading her into one of the lounge’s discreet shower cubicles and helping her hop up onto the marble basin where he puts his hand between her legs and finds and presses on her clitoris until she comes. She imagines her staying behind in the cubicle to remove and fold away her wet panties while he returns to the lounge. She imagines him saying goodbye to her without exchanging business cards before boarding through the priority lane.
And then she turns her head to the left and looks directly at me. She smiles politely and I smile back. And I notice her hand move up to her neck and back down into her lap as she imagines me pushing her up against a wall behind a smoky bar.