Her toe has tapped almost constantly the entire flight, even during her restless sleep, betraying the nervous energy that she is too self contained to show any other way.
As with most Latin looking women, her age is hard to decipher. She could be mistaken for sixteen, but her poise and eyes are those of a much older woman. Her eyes, especially, seem to exude understanding and sympathy far beyond her apparent years. But there is also shrewdness there, and a type of wary hardness. There is a sense of world weariness, but it has not yet translated into apathy or indifference. She has too much eagerness and innocent joy for that.
The plane slows to a stop, and the passengers start unbuckling their seat belts and grabbing for their carry -ons, in a mad dash to be absolutely ready to run off once the doors of the plane open.
But she sits. Nervously patting and smoothing the black dress which makes her look nothing but out of place amongst the sweat pants clad, harried people around her. Her dress is simple, knee length and classically cut. She wears no jewelry, and her makeup is minimal, highlighting her large watchful eyes, and clear skin.
The whole look would be severe, if it were not for the bright red, kitten heeled pumps on her feet. Her restraint and containment do not extend to her shoes, which reveal perhaps the most important, yet hidden thing about her.
The passengers start moving; the plane doors have opened and they want out. She sighs, seeming to dread the exodus as much as everyone else is eager for it. Smoothing her hair and perching oversized sunglasses on her head, she grabs her carry on, heads down the aisle, and a few minutes later is in front of the baggage claim.
She has a weird sense of deja vu as she waits for her luggage. She is in the same airport, dressed in the same clothes, at approximately the same time of day as when she left it 48 hours before. Except this time, guilt is added to her nervousness. And a sense of having completely lost all control is haunting her.
Terrifying her.
