Love letter.

The doors of the plane had closed ready for take-off, the walkway once attached was beginning to reverse back to the terminal. She looked out of the window and saw a flight attendant at the edge of it, dark hair floating around her face, escaping from a messy bun, head laying to one side, eyes staring down. She watched. Suddenly the flight attendant looked up, as if seeing where she was for the first time. Brushing her shirt down she opened the door quickly, disappearing back inside. As she turned, a piece of paper flew out of her pocket and floated to the floor, the corner of it getting trapped between the door as it closed. It lay there fluttering in the breeze. She panicked, looking around the plane to see if anyone else had noticed. Her heart thumped. Soon she knew the flight attendant would put her hand into her pocket looking for it, maybe just to feel it, a small smile pulling on her lips, dreams resting on it. The number of someone she had just met, her breath stuttering with want, their journey so young, hopes riding the curves of every line, each flick of a letter or number meaning something else. Maybe it was in the other pocket, speeding up, armpits prickling, as it became clear it wasn’t there either. Her face would flush. She might retrace her steps, walking fast back along the walkway in case it was down there but never thinking to open the door to look outside, the irony being if she did it would fly away.