The first time I saw you.

Anticipation.

Arriving too early.

Distress.

Wiping sweaty palms on the back of jeans.

Doubt.

Looking at self in every reflective surface.

Misgivings.

Turning to the go home, then changing mind again.

Anxiety

Breathe! Just frigging breathe!

I’ve been pacing up and down the arrival hall for the past twenty minutes and it’ll be another ten minutes before the plane is scheduled to land. Then fifteen maybe twenty minutes before he finds his way here. I whimper and escape to the bathroom one more time.

Stop panicking, keep it together!

We met online, exchanged pictures, and chatted. Daily. And now he’s here or will be soon. This is one of the craziest things I’ve ever done. And I’ve made some unadvised decisions in my life. I can't remember the number of times I told myself that I should have known better but got away with luck. For instance, I did the Euro rail and hostel tour right after college. By myself. I blissfully accepted invitations to stay with strangers in strange lands. I followed questionable guides up uncharted paths. I participated in ‘group activities’ my parents will never hear about. I hitched rides and picked up hitchhikers. I ate dodgy foods, drank iffy drinks, and smoked magic pipes. And this, inviting someone I only know through texts and emails, to stay with me is right up there.

Not that I’m inhospitable. After all my family has a long history of hosting exchange students. There was Vanessa from Palo Alto. She had difficulty adjusting. One morning about two months into her one-year stay, she called a cab and went home. Left a note on the kitchen counter. Adlee from Türkiye got two girls in trouble and was asked to go home before his year was up. Umar from Nigeria claimed he couldn't digest my mother’s cooking and set his room on fire trying to cook his own traditional food. And finally, there was Gunnar from Sweden. He was a “non-traditional student” at seventy-five and passes away in his sleep a day or two after Christmas.

Once, I was young, naïve, and trusting. But I’m older, smarter, and leerier now, or at least I’m supposed to be. I’ve earned my share of bumps and bruises. I’ve been burned, hit my head against walls and had my fingers slapped a time or two. I should be more cautious and barricade myself behind my door.

I could have gracefully discouraged him. I might have changed the topic, but I didn’t. I invited him, persuaded him, dreamed about him. To tell the truth, I’ve been acting like a silly sixteen-year-old starry-eyes chit. I need to get a grip. After all, I’m an old woman. Well ... not old-old, but several clicks past my prime. I can’t help but wonder what has made him so eager. Why has he so readily accepted my invitation?

What if he’s a sex maniac? What if he’s a white slaver? What if ---?

Oh, stop! I scoff.

As if, at my age, I am a candidate for white slavery. Reaching middle age does make a woman relax a little on that subject. There just isn’t any money to be made off me, other than the few dollars I carry in my purse. And let’s face it, a sex maniac would be a welcome change from my vibrator.

But what if he’s a killer? That little voice nags.

I mentally shrug. If he kills me quickly, if he doesn’t torture me for days and days, and if he could maybe, add a tiny bit of pleasure, just to make the transition easier, then let him. Because, let’s be honest, the future doesn’t look all that rosy. How many years has it been since anyone said more than hiya? What are the chances that anyone, besides my doctor or a coroner, will take a second look at me?

In the lady’s room I lean on the sink and stare into the mirror and wonder what he saw. He said I was beautiful when I sent that selfie. I scoffed at his compliment. I don’t see it. Never have. And I have scrutinized this face since I was twelve or thirteen. I have unfavorably compared myself to every model in every fashion magazine for years. Have studied and doggedly followed all beauty tip ever conjured by any fledging editor.

Sure, the acne is gone only to be replaced by wrinkles. My hair is less oily but there also is less of it. I’m just as awkward as I’ve ever been and now there is more of me. I have stopped following fashion trends and have schlumped into frumpy.

Back at the top of the escalator, I pace and anxiously scan faces. I wonder if I will recognize him. All I have are a few selfies. Are they true? Have I been too trusting? Was it stupid of me to take his word, believing everything he wrote? Should I turn around and go home? Should I tuck my tail between my legs and let him flounder? Should I …

What is scaring me more, I ask myself, that he is not what he said he is, or that he is? What if he is as thoughtful, charming, delightful, insightful, fun, intelligent as he has led me to believe? Would that be so bad?

It would, I counter, if I don’t live up to his fantasies. If he finds me dull, stupid, boring, stodgy, old, fat. Yes, old and fat. What if he is disgusted with me and invents a reason to go home early? What if …

The letters on the board flip. His plane has landed. I feel a sudden new surge of panic. Is he rushing impatiently? Or will he dawdle, wondering what possessed him to come. Is he thinking about turning around or walking past me?

I will my stomach not to turn over.

Can I do this? Is it too late to run home? How do I plaster a smile on my face? Can I welcome him with open arms?

My phone buzzes with a text, <I’m here. See you soon.>

But what if he’s a thief? What if he robs me blind?

If he is, then yes, I am screwed.

I elbow to the front. Press against the railing and watch the steady stream of wrinkled people. Him? Or him, no. Him? Why didn’t I ask what he'd be wearing? It’s too soon, isn’t it? He’s not off the plane yet. Still has to walk the concourse, take the little train.

There!

His face upturned, scanning the waiting crowd. His dark eyes widen, his smile brightens, his hand lifts in greeting, my name is on his lips.

I’m so screwed. He just stole my breath.