Inn the Mood

The neighbor reached down, took both her hands and pulled her to her feet in one smooth motion. She knew he had to feel the slick paste of the wax on her fingers and the stickiness of semi-dried coffee residue.

She looked down at the zipper of the khaki flight suit she wore when doing dirty work on the plane. It extended from crotch to neck and had a triangular, beige, leather pull laced through it to assist in the zipping.

Before starting the waxing job she had unzipped it to below her bra. It helped dispel the heat of the day. She forgot she had unzipped.

“Can I buy you a coffee?” he said.

“Wow,” Mattie said. “It was so hot. I'm sorry. How ignorant of me.”

She looked down at her exposed torso. She took hold of the beige leather and zipped it hard and fast up to her neck.

She dusted off her khaki jumpsuit as though the brushing would elevate her to a clean and dressed lady, to be presented to the new neighbor. For a moment she remembered how she used to dress and how she used to feel around men she cared for.

She did not like the brushing or the immediate primping because there was a man in her midst, a new man, one next to her hangar. What was she doing? Therapy was inevitable.

She felt the moisture on her fingers - a slick, thick, greasy silt. She rubbed her thumb over the index and middle fingers of her left hand. The neighbor looked down at the crimson liquid at the same time Mattie did.

“I think you're bleeding,” the man said. “Must have done it with the zipper, maybe something on the belly of the plane. I have a first aid kit in my car. Be right back.”

“No,” she said, and in the saying felt dark and lonely.

“I'll just be a minute. Better unzip that. It'll stain,” he said.

She placed her fingers on the zipper and watched him walk out of the hangar. He was older than she, maybe ten years. He was only slightly over six feet, trim, with a young man's movements, an athletic walk, the same kind professional athletes effortlessly display. He wore a white shirt. She thought it would go nicely with a red power tie, the knot loosened like men do at the end of a day at the office.

She heard the leather of his heels echo off the cement as he turned the corner and opened the door to his car.

Mattie walked into her father's hangar office and turned on the water, picked up a bar of soap, scrubbed the wax off her hands, picked up a towel, dried, and hung it neatly on the towel rack above the sink.

When the new neighbor returned there was a small dab of red on Mattie's neck. He stood close to her. She felt him in her space.

It was curious how she did not feel anything uncomfortable about his closeness. Maybe it was just the business of making a slight wound antiseptic and nothing more.

She inhaled the aroma of his cologne and sensed the heat of his body emanating through his clothes. It enveloped her. She found herself feeling more at home with his presence.

She did not want the feeling to escalate. She did not want to fantasize about a total stranger coming into her hangar and wanting to touch her neck with an astringent to treat some slight pin-prick of a wound, and then who knows what?

The man could be a mass murderer for all she knew. He could be an escaped convict or drug smuggling assassin. Foolish thoughts, she thought, but necessary to keep the status quo; to protect her from another hurt, another man.

Michael reached out and dabbed a white piece of gauze gently upon the small blood spot on her neck. Mattie's hands were at her side, like some child being disciplined at recess for being a bad girl.

She stood motionless, waiting for the sting of pain from the wound to erupt. She knew bad things would happen if she permitted the hangar scene to continue. It had to be stopped.

She smelled the soft, clean odor of whatever he had smeared on the gauze. He dabbed around her neck, lowering his hand and touching a spot directly beneath the speck of blood.

“Just cleaning up some run-off here. Hardly anything at all,” he said. “Can't take a chance of infection though.”

Mattie felt slightly drunk, light headed, her hands still and limp at her side. Some kind of hypnosis or something, she thought. I can't believe I'm standing here letting this stranger touch me.

"Ya' know, you don't look well. Really, you're okay. You do understand that, don't you?” It's only a scratch. By the way, just for the sake of conversation, what's your name? I like to know before I operate.”

“I'm Mattie,” she said. “Mattie Palmason.”

“Well Mattie, I think you need to sit down.”

She knew he was right. She felt weak and out of control. Her knees shook slightly. She did not believe they could support her. The hangar was not staying still.