09.

On the plane, Richie couldn’t help but replay the scene in his head. How out of nowhere she’d been close enough to his face that he could feel her eyelashes. How her lips felt as she’d smiled against his own and how her eyes danced when she laughed. Jon was dozing off next to him, and Richie wished he too could drift off into slumber. Every time he got close, however, her face hurtled back into the forefront of his mind. There was just something about her, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He recalled the first time he’d seen her – she wasn’t anything special to him. It wasn’t until he’d spent those first few nights with her, watching her interact with people, that she’d interested him. There was no other way to describe her but infectious; if he had to guess, maybe it was a Southern thing. Either way, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. In a span of a few weeks, she’d wormed her way under his skin. He’d been careful about women since his very painful, very public split with his wife and the following girlfriend. But this one – Natalie – she was different. She didn’t seem dangerous. In fact, she seemed safe. She seemed normal. She seemed like everything he could ever need.

“Stoppit,” Jon said so suddenly that Richie almost spilled the drink he had in his left hand.
“Stop what?” he asked, blinking in bewilderment.
“Thinking. Analyzing. Relax, man.”
”I wasn’t. You were sleeping.”
”Resting my eyes,” Jon corrected, “And you think I gotta see you to know when something’s bothering you?” he asked. “Spill it.”

Richie sighed, knowing better than to try to wriggle his way out of this one. There was no hiding anything from Jon, as annoying as it was sometimes.

“I can’t stop thinking about her, man,” Richie admitted, feeling as if he should launch into an immediate explanation for something he didn't even quite understand himself. He was a grown man; he had every right to be attracted to a woman. And he’d had more than his fair share of women, so why was it so hard to talk about this one?

Jon groaned and rolled his head back on his seat. “Rich, man. I told you. She’s young. Leave her alone.”
“I know, I know. But she’s a mature thirty-three years, Jon. There’s something about her…”
“What is it this time?” Jon asked, rolling his head around to look at him.
“I don’t know. She’s different. She’s…” Richie paused, searching for a word. Rather than supply him with one of his own, Jon let Richie’s mind search. “…warm,” Richie finished, aware that it sounded strange. “She’s normal…safe. There’s no pretense with her, you know? She smiles. She doesn’t make a big deal out of my job. She lets me be normal, too. She’s smooth and easygoing. She’s like…summertime.”

Jon stared at his friend, and raised one hand. “Before we go further with this conversation, we gotta remember that – that something like summertime thing. Secondly, you’ve known her for..what, Rich, a couple of days?”
“Weeks,” Richie corrected, though it had hardly been over a month.
“Right. You don’t know this woman. I mean…she sings in a bar for Christ sakes. Is that the kind of woman you really need?” Jon asked, but he knew it was stupid as he said it. Maybe someone like that was exactly what Richie needed, something other than a blonde haired, blue eyed actress.
“Hell if I know. When do I ever know what I need? I know what I want, and right now I want her.”