He looks like he belongs inside the issue of Men’s Health that he’s clutching in his hands. Muscled, veiny hands, with thick, long fingers and veins that convey strength. All of him looks strong, really, which is why I notice him sitting on a bench. We’re both on the third floor of the parking garage at SEA-TAC Airport, waiting to take a shuttle into the city. I’m sitting 20 feet away, but even from that distance, I can’t miss him. He’s broad – his shoulders are so broad that all I can think is “lumberjack” or “personal trainer.” He’s wearing a simple white t-shirt, but it clings to his biceps in a way that makes my mouth water. A white t-shirt never looked so good. When he stands to grab his bag, I can see that he’s easily 6 feet tall or more. Narrow hips. Strong thighs encased in worn denim that fits him ridiculously well.
I’m sitting on the floor of my hotel room. The sliding glass door is wide open, the air swooping through the room, carrying with it the sounds and smells of the city I love. The sun is sinking away now, taking the blue sky with it and leaving soft, burnished beauty in its wake. There is an occasional call of a seagull as it careens between the skyscrapers before heading back out to Elliott Bay. Air brakes hiss. Music thumps. The air smells like food – Chinese, Thai, Mexican – sweet and spicy, but with a hint of salt.