Butterfly and the Orchid farm

The tarmac is spotted with the traffic control people and airplanes from all over the place. All of it, all the people involved, makes this a perfectly functional unit. Watching all of it from behind a glass screen, she slowly flicks some of her hair that ventured too close to her eyes. Her tresses were just washed, and smelled of something sweet and nutty.
The long nails painted maroon gently flicked the stray strands behind her ear. The smell from the freshly painted henna lingered at her nose for a few moments before the tinkling of two dozen red and cream bangles she had on, distracted her senses.
She looked over her shoulder, past the guy in the mauve coloured shirt who had been working on his laptop ever since she came. She could tell from the corner of her eye that he even grimaced at whatever was going on in the screen from time to time.
No sign of him.
A middle aged man walks in, and checks her out sitting cross legged, in blue jeans that had faded from too many washes. That and a little white shirt, teamed with Sindoor and all those bangles. What a pretty sight.
She looked up an again, at an empty door way and picked up her juice bottle that she bought at the grocery store just before getting there. She shook it a little, since the bottle always says shake well before use, and also to estimate how much of it was left. Her fingers felt the circumference of the cap a couple of times, while she tried to decide if she should drink some. Fluids are good for you. But the thought of the door painted with the sign of a girl helped her take a decision against it.
The waiting area was fairly full now. A lot of people had walked in, some with looks on their faces that gave away a long day at work. The seat next to her was unoccupied, except for her handbag.
The guy in the mauve shirt was frowning again at his laptop and there was another man sitting close to her, discussing something in an alien tongue.
She put the palms of her hand together and looked at the intricately painted design on them. The henna had turned a deep brown, black almost. That is a good sign before a wedding, they say. She had on a kind that was a rage- called Zardosi. It was intricate and delicate silver work along with the other pattern. It added that certain touch. Like wearing a business suit over spaghetti trimmed with lace. The pattern in itself had so many things going on, almost as if each little portion of the palms of her hand had a story to tell.
Like the swan under the thumb.
The women who came to do the henna were beautiful in their own way- secretive, giggling among themselves in a tongue that she didn’t understand, and nice milk and cream complexion. They smelled of something she couldn’t put her finger on, and kept receiving text messages that made them flush just the teeniest bit.
She was jerked out of her train of thought when he sat next to her. He was in a light blue shirt and flashed her a smile that was unnerving because of how openly it said so many things. The way his dimple slowly and suddenly formed on his cheek delighted her in many ways.
He puts his hand over her chair, she leans back just a little and his fingers were around her shoulder.
Comfort at a little corner of the world.