by susan s nash

Created on: April 07, 2007   Last Updated: May 02, 2007

I met the Medic on a dark, strange night in late June. We were flying through a thunderstorm as we approached the airport in the last few moments of our flight from Chicago to Albany, New York.

He was seated in the same row but across the aisle. For some reason, I had captured his attention. He looked at me, and he seemed surprised to have been distracted by another passenger.

I lost myself in the music I was listening to. Listening to my favorite chill-out tunes I could remain passive as the plane lurched, dropped, dipped, and pulled my stomach into knots. We were on a 51-passenger Embraer regional jet. It was a little powerhouse, which was some relief. It was still a rough ride.

He had looked at me again. Something in his eyes drew me in. There were dark whirlpools in the night. The downward pull had no ending point, nor did it have a beginning. This was the apotheosis of raw fear, despair, and desire. I felt myself starting to crave.

He spoke Spanish. Don't ask me how I knew. No words were exchanged.

Once on the ground, I followed him as he disembarked. Walking quickly, I approached him, came within a few feet. Sensing me, he turned. His eyes burned. Dark charcoal with glowing red pinpoints of light in the center. It was looking into a laser-site on an automatic weapon. My stomach lurched again, my knees trembled.

His pupils could not be red. That was impossible.

"Que vuelo. Que suerte que llegamos vivos. What a flight. Lucky we got here alive."

"Y asi somos? Are we?" His lips parted in a smile. Lips full. His hips were narrow. Slender face. A haunted shadow crossed his face, and with flash-knowledge I realized he suffered from tremendous nightmares. He leaned toward me. My heart raced in response.

Walking wordlessly, we made our way toward the baggage claim area.

"I'm staying at the Hilton in Saratoga Springs. Would you have time to join me? For coffee? A drink?"

It is far. Saratoga Springs is a good 40 miles away. I live in the other direction. I don't know him. It is stormy. Horse races. High-tech and nano-tech. Mafia. Horse breeders. Genetic engineering.

"The storm," I said. I gestured toward the glass windows through which we could see droplets cascading against the glass. Lightning flashed blue-white illumination. Signs flapped in the gale-force winds.

"Come with me."

Changing the subject was not a very skillful way to mask my emotions, but I tried it anyway.

"I can't believe we made it through that storm."

"How do you know that we actually made it? Do you know

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