You know that moment.
You’re in Iceland. Its July. You’re flying to the States from Europe, stopping at Reykjavík, Iceland. Its snowing. You wander into the airport, and order a Polar Bear beer at the bar, and ask the beguilingly beautiful barmaid what she does in Iceland.
“I try to leave,” she says.
“I see,” you manage.
You glance at her, and see her eyes briefly sparkled in that smile.
Then you remember you are travelling, on a journey, and now is not the time for standing and smiling, for journeys and meetings are magical, and neither must slip from us due to our inattention, our indecision, or desire to stay rooted where we are and not take an undiscovered path to our dreams.
“What would make you leave?” you ask.
“Someone like you asking me to,” she answers.
You hesitate. Fatally, for a full five minutes. The moment starts to slide. She asks your name, and tells you hers. You look outside at the plane on the tarmac in the July snow.
“You got your toothbrush?” you smile, finding the right words at last.
“It will take me only a short time to get it!” she says. She has given keys to her colleague, and smiles one last time, and walks quickly to the car park.
Twelve years later she tells you she did come back, just five minutes after you had boarded again. In the half hour she is gone, with the air stewardess telling you for the third time you had to board, you begin to think she had realised what she was doing and changed her mind.
I boarded the plane, July snowflakes drifting about me as I climbed the steps, the air stewardess holding the door.
“I wrote this song for you,” she told me, twelve years later, when I sat in the front row.
a magic meeting
on a journey
her voice melts
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