The Woman in 3B - Eliza Lentzski Page 0,20

which was only vacant because the previous patrons hadn’t bothered to throw away their food wrappers, used napkins, and half-finished sodas. I grumbled all the way to the nearby trash can. As if it wasn’t annoying enough to pick up after passengers in-flight, I was still doing it while grounded.

I dabbed at the outer layer of cheese and pepperoni grease with a handful of napkins. The grease-soaked paper was an over-the-top reminder that I shouldn’t have been eating that kind of food, but between having to see Lara again and being stuck in the Philadelphia airport for at least the next two hours, I deserved this small indulgence.

The single slice of pepperoni pizza was comically large. The crust wasn’t structurally stable, and I had to hold it in both hands to steer it towards my open mouth.

My teeth had only made first contact when I heard the vaguely familiar voice: “Is this seat taken?”

My eyes cast up from my pizza slice to see Anissa—the woman from 3B on my Wednesday flights. My glance went first to her face and then to the sensible salad on her cafeteria-style plastic tray.

My teeth sank the rest of the way into my first bite. As I tried to pull away, hot cheese made contact with the roof of my mouth. A startled, gurgling noise tumbled up my throat. Half of the toppings and the thick layer of melted mozzarella cheese slid off the tomato-sauced crust. I clumsily dropped the sloppy pizza back onto its paper plate. The stubborn cheese pull continued to connect my mouth to my meal. I had to use my fingers to break the thick string of cheese.

Anissa cocked an eyebrow. “You okay?”

I hastily gulped down the piping hot bite without chewing. The molten lava cheese burned all the way down my throat. “Yeah,” I gasped.

Anissa continued to stand with her food tray in hands. “There doesn’t seem to be any other free tables.”

I realized she was waiting on me.

“Shit. Yeah. Sorry.” I grabbed at the handfuls of grease-stained napkins that littered the small table to make room for her. Anissa waited patiently while I consolidated my mess. “Sorry. Sorry,” I continued to apologize.

“You’re fine,” she assured.

I hopped to my feet as she sat down.

She frowned at my action. “You’re not leaving, are you? You hardly touched your food.”

“Give me your tray,” I said, holding a hand out to her. “It’ll give us more room.”

“I can do that,” she insisted.

“I’m already up.”

She relinquished her plastic tray without further protest. I brought her tray to the trash can and took the opportunity to also throw away my mountain of wasted napkins.

Anissa had already started to eat her salad by the time I returned to the table. I felt a little out of breath as I sat down. I’d done nothing physical to warrant the quickened pulse or the flushed skin, but I suspected Anissa’s unexpected presence had produced the reaction.

“Hi,” I said.

Anissa smiled. “Hi, Alice.”

I was privately pleased that she’d remembered my name.

“That pizza looked dangerous,” she remarked. “I thought I was going to have to call airport security to save you.”

My cheeks warmed. “Yeah. I guess I should have stuck to a safe salad.”

She hummed in agreement, but didn’t continue to tease me. I watched her use a plastic knife and fork to cut her salad toppings into smaller, more manageable bites—something I probably should have done with my pizza if I hadn’t wanted to look like a buffoon.

I took the opportunity to inspect my tablemate while her attention was on her salad. Her charcoal grey suit was tailored to her slim silhouette. The three-quarter lengthened suit jacket left her wrists exposed. The leather band of her rose gold watch matched the hue of her slightly darker pants.

“I don’t suppose you have any insider knowledge on when flights will start leaving again?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Sorry. I know just as much as you.”

“So much for getting home in time,” she sighed.

I was tempted to ask her what she needed to get home in time for, but I didn’t want to come across as nosy.

Anissa was quiet as she ate her salad. The action of her plastic fork delivering bits of green leaf lettuce and cucumber slices drew my attention to my two favorite body parts—her mouth and hands. I loved feminine hands. Delicate wrist bones. Slender fingers. Her lips looked pillowy soft, like I could fall into them and never emerge. Her eye makeup was meticulous. I envied her