I still don’t know his name.
I’ve taken to calling him Drake due to the large dragon tattoo that started on his chest, trailed over his shoulder and ended on his lower back. It was massive and it was absolutely stunning to say the least. I met him in the lobby bar. I was a very nervous flier and found a drink or two beforehand was just enough to calm me. He was sullen and moping in a corner. I sat nearby. He made the first move.
“Which flight are you on?” His voice was deep, it didn’t really match the bleach-blonde hair and slim figure he had. He was wearing a nicely fitted charcoal blazer and a pair of dark blue jeans, a tie hung loosely at his neck and the top button on his shirt was undone. My initial impression of him made me think he was a writer, or out of work PI.
“315 to DC. Work obligations, you?”
He smiled, and it brightened his soft brown eyes, “Oddly enough the same, though I’m going home from a work obligation.” He motioned to my drink, “looks like you don’t particularly enjoy flying, huh?”