The fictionalized versions of the Purse stories continue. Something about Megan’s shots suggested this scenario to me. And, if you know Megan, you so know that this could hapen. So while she all told us that she was at Bloggy Bootcamp with the SITSGirls, and claims to have photographic evidence to prove it, it’s possible that this is what really did happen, but if she told us about it, she’d have to kill us all.
She waited.
She looked like a person waiting to catch a flight.
This was what she was supposed to look like.
Just a young woman, a stunning beautiful young woman, yes, but just a young woman nonetheless, waiting to catch a flight.
That was what everyone was meant to think. But she had no interest in flights, no interest in the planes, no interest in arrivals or departures.
She had a hand off to make. That was all. Then she would be gone.
She sat, relaxed and still, by all appearances reading her magazine, the picture of nonchalance. But her mind was anything but still or relaxed. Three people at the magazine stand, the man in the blue suit clearly in charge…Two young women who ran out of money before they ran out of vacation…undercover airport security doing a terrible job of being undercover…a bag unattended for four minutes before the family who realized they’d forgotten it hurried back to retrieve it… The perpetually observant part of her mind catalogued her surroundings unconcsciously. But the very conscious part of her mind was ticking minutes by.
Where was her contact?
At twenty minutes past mark, she stretched, slung her bags over her shoulder, and checked her watch. A casual observer would think her bored, at the airport far too early for her flight. She pouted slightly and looked around. The she meandered lightly to the first class lounge, clearly wanting to drown the travel tedium with a cocktail.
Inside she was anything but bored, she was irritated. This was bloody unprofessional. She scanned the lounge without seeming to, decided that her contact hadn’t make it to the back-up drop site either and sat down at the bar to order a drink.
Her brain continued to count minutes. The arrangement was twenty minutes at each possible hand-off site. One more attempt after this one, and she would leave. Not just the airport, but the country. If contact wasn’t made, then something was very wrong. Something had been compromised and no place was safe. Despite years of training against panic, she let herself settle into “mildy concerned.”
At two minutes left before heading to the third and final potential drop site, a subtle movement to her left told her the seat next her had been occupied.
“Nice purse,” said the soft female voice.
“It would go with your shoes,” she replied.
“I might have to buy it from you.”
Refusing to let her irritation show, the first woman sipped her martini. “You had two minutes left before I moved.”
The slight shape moved in what might have been a shrug.
“Turns out finding shoes that might actually go with that bag is a lot harder than you’d think.”
To be fair, thought the woman sipping the drink, finding anything that might go with the bag had to be a stretch.
“Well, you made it. But I think you get to pay for my drink.”
“Fair enough,” replied the soft voice.
The beautiful woman took one last sip of the martini, and, leaving the sequined bag on the bar, turned without another word and left the lounge.
Despite her beauty, no one noticed.
The sequined, striped bag on the bar was all anyone ever really looked at.
