Realistic or Modern Esa mujer fue malas noticias

[alterego]

The sun laid gentle kisses on my forehead; spreading its warmth down across my body as I looked upwards to take in the looming bustle of the airport junction ahead. A part of me was incredibly nervous regardless of the countless flights I had taken in the past; there’s just something about having your locus of control completely stripped of you, even for a moment, that always gave me an unnecessary anxiety. This feeling quickly dissolved as I heard a shuttle coming to an abrupt, screeching halt followed by a heavy hold on the horn.

“Pay attention to where you’re going, what the hell!” a man yelled out his window at me. I was so captured by my own thoughts that I didn’t even notice that I was crossing an active street.

Ugh I’m such an idiot. Here I am worried about a plane crash when I could’ve killed myself right then and there.

The shuttle took off and this time I waited until the street signal beckoned for pedestrians to cross. This airport was grand; it read “Hocoma International Airport” across the facility in an obnoxious neon red, surrounded by a diverse array of national flags. I gripped my suitcase and continued inside. With my phone in my other hand, I began to text. I can't wait to see you! Made it to the airport and am headed to get checked in and boarded soon. You better be there when I land loser :-P I bet I’m taller than you lol. Send, boom. I swiped my messages away and pulled up my boarding pass as I stood in my check-in line.

I couldn’t believe we were starting University in a few days, in Toronto. I was finally off on my own; raw and unobliged. A new “adult” Aria. The check-in and security checkpoints took ages but soon enough I was on my way to my gate and now even better, running late. My suitcase roared against the tile behind me as I darted in between slow-walking crowds down the halls. I approached my aisle and my flight was on its last call for passengers. I fell into line behind the others, hit airplane mode on my cell, and was ready to take flight. Anxiety was replaced by excitement and I wondered what would be in store for this year; who did my dear old friend grow up to be? I knew I certainly changed, and I know he would have too. My eyes glanced downward, taking inventory of my physique. I had grown about a few inches since the 8th grade, about 3 inches I’d say but that wasn’t the only thing growing-- my gaze shifting to my breast. I had to be rocking at least DD cups; my thighs equally filling out my lower half in my faded blue jeans. Deep mocha curls waterfalled down past my shoulders contrasting against the golden-brown honey of my skin, and my eyes were an even crisper, more variant shade of hazel. As I took note of the supple pout of my lips thoughts yet again began to interject, Who CARES what you look like? It’s your best friend for Pete’s sake! I boarded the plane without another thought of my appearance, hoping that I looked at least presentable enough for the occasion. I. Couldn’t. Wait.

 

[powerline]

crimson &

clover

Cesar de la Cruz

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When his phone hummed, it was early. Dawn had yet to spill through shuttered blinds and band his bedsheets gold and white and gold again. So instead, when he fumbled for his phone, it was in a darkness faintly illuminated by digital numbers. The alarm clock towered above him on a stool and cast the creases of the duvet, the rises of his body, and his tight curls in red. Another hum and his arm stirred. He had always been a heavy sleeper—stomach down, face mashed into the pillow, tossing and turning, and stealing blankets—but any tomorrow that promised eagerness brought him in and out of dreams as abrupt and frequently as flitting between a doorway, unable to commit. His hand was guided by the charging cord snaked along his mattress until the pad of his finger found a cracked screen and his little nest beside the bed made up of wires and empty cans was awash with light. He read the messages through squinted eyes, smiling, yawning, rubbing the dark scruff on his jaw, and scoffing briefly. Aria always reminded him of his brother, casual and bouncy. And when she had told him she was going to the same school it felt like she was coming home—the third sibling finally returning to him.

The lock screen faded back to black and Cesar rolled over. He pressed his chest to the back of the sleeping body next to him, tipped his nose into silky hair, and pulled his girlfriend close.

By the time he left his shift at Pizza Pizza, it was already raining. Heavy droplets fell on the windshield when he settled in his car, blurring the outside world to a smear and amplifying the neon signs and traffic lights. The city gleaned when it was wet. It was, as if by absorbing the moisture, fresher, its colors heightened. Toronto felt Cesar’s electricity and fed him its own lightening. One big welcome show for Aria. Though he had already told her he was coming from work, Cesar peeled off the bright orange shirt and tossed it to the cluttered backseat. Replacing it with something that didn’t reek of tomato paste and grease despite his skin having steeped in the smell. He pushed his glasses back up his nose with a shoulder and, ignoring the rain lightly flecked on his lens, started the engine.

The first time Cesar flew—though it had been to Canada—he didn’t land in Toronto. He was four, leaving Santo Domingo and stepping into a real Northern winter in sandals. The bite from the cold still stung in his memories, but the bitterness had been assuaged by the magic of it all. He could recall catching snowflakes on his tongue as he tried to leech warmth from his bag all while waiting for his uncle to drive up and load an entire family into a too small sedan. Enchanted. Scared. Emotions linked to, and stirred by, airports. He put on a cap, a faded Pizza Pizza embroidered into the slate gray fabric, and lifted his coat collar to his ears before slipping out into the downpour.

He pushed looped hair from his face, wiped the water from his glasses with the hem of his shirt, and scanned the arrivals and departures board. Hocoma. Flight number: B0792. On time. He posted himself by baggage claim, texted Aria his whereabouts, and stared out into a mass of bobbing faces. Among them, he searched for a glimpse of familiarity and hoped, maybe, she could find traces of it in him if he couldn’t. He had grown, sprouted, like a weed desperate for sun. He wasn’t as scrawny as back then, but he still kept that ranginess. Long limbed and wild like a hare.

 

[alterego]

3. 
   
6. 
   
8. ARIA SALLOW
9. 
   
11. Mood: L a n g u o r
    
    Location: T o r o n t o
    
    
    
    
    
13. The flight had made it in perfect time; the sky quickly grew murky pooling with thick, grey clouds and the unsatisfied rumble of thunder in the distance. The cabin sang in its own tune with clicks from seat belts and the low, excited murmurs of its passengers. Aria, who was furiously scripting into her notebook, received a disgruntled huff from the man beside her seat as she was the only one who seemed to be in no rush to get off the aircraft. "Could you move so I can grab my bag? Thanks." the man said curtly. What he had said appeared unproblematic at best, but his tone eagerly matched his irritable facial expression; better get moving. Aria smiled bashfully, quickly gathered her items from her flight tray, and followed suit with the other waiting passengers. In twos they poured out of the plane and disembarked into the new airport terminal--Aria could already tell how big Toronto must be. Unlike Hocoma, Toronto's airport was a bustling hub; children ran in circles around waiting area seating, people were on phones, laptops, or enjoying the efficiency of fast food and breakfast sandwiches galore. It was a beautiful disaster in its own right but she had no time to admire its grandness--she was on a mission. Aria placed her blush studio headphones over her ears and began on her hunt for the checked baggage claiming department. Finding the baggage claim was the easy part; now finding Aria's bag? this proved to be a rather daunting challenge. She scoured between turning carousels; San Diego, Miami, Ontario; where the hell is Hocoma? And just like that, it seemed the universe put Aria at ease, her eyes falling on the flashing sign: Hocoma. Flight number: B0792. Arrived. Success! Her yellow sunflower suitcase stood out among the incoming masses and she snatched it away with no hesitation. It was now time to get the hell out of here and find Cesar.
    It had been quite some time, years really, that the two had seen one another. Aria bit her lip, frustrated and disheartened by the amount of incognito, moving faces around her. No Cesar. How was she supposed to find him? Shoulders grazed against her own, stories were lost in translation, and suitcases occasionally played bumper cars down the street as guests of all kinds attempted too to seek out their loved ones. Aria's sense of personal space deteriorated by the time she had managed to escape the clutches of the Departures entrance. She moved to a quieter end of the strip and kept her eyes peeled for her beloved carrot-top friend. The rain didn't aid much either and it was only getting heavier; it roared atop the airport's roof covering and began to drown out all the voices around. The petrichor filled the air, mixing with the smell of cars, bus engines, and soil. Aria decided to continue onward assuming that she had to be close to Cesar's described location. Her head hung low while she searched through the phone looking for their previous conversation, but this was briefly disrupted by a crashing into a firm, tall figure. The masking scent of rain was no longer in that moment; instead replaced by the sweet zest of freshly ripened tomatoes. Aria glanced up; her mouth forming the words to apologize but instead all that came out was a gasp and her eyes began to sparkle... "Cesar! "

 

[alterego]

bump

 

[alterego]

no more huh?