In Flight

Of course, they meet on a plane. The empty seat between them seems, at first, like a blessing—welcome elbow room, a comfortable boundary. As she settles into 10C, they mumble hello.

After that you know what happens. They fall into—no, not love, stop being so romantic—they fall into silence, he with his BlackBerry, she with her book. She is thinking of her husband, at home with the baby, and feeling guilty. No matter that this trip is business, entirely legitimate. Leaving them, even for a few days, feels like a betrayal.

Before her daughter was born, she would have been thinking about the man in 10A, considering the possibilities: the casual conversation with its subtle undertones of desire; the lengthening glances; the eventual move to 10B, ostensibly to peer out the window; the light pressure of his arm against hers. It's a long flight, five hours. There would be time for everything to happen in an unhurried, natural fashion. It was all much easier before the baby, before there was so much at stake.

Glancing over, she notices that his legs look good in his jeans. His hair has personality. The wire-rimmed glasses have the probably-intended effect.

He, meanwhile, is thinking about a girl in Atlanta, the warm smell of her neck. Also, about football. Please, don't hold this against him! By football I mean the World Cup, which will be happening during his birthday, June 23. He's thinking about the barbecue he'll have in his garden in Oxford (England, not Mississippi). He'll make spiced pork balls with chipotle sauce, he'll serve a nice Thai beer, and with any luck England will pull it together. He looks up, sees the woman watching him. Caught, she smiles slightly. Is he imagining things, or is it a vaguely sexual smile, an acknowledgement? Perhaps she's not as uptight as he first thought. With American women, it's so hard to tell. She looks like she just rolled out of bed, which she probably did, because it's a god-awful early flight. Still, there's this: when she was placing her bag in the overhead bin, her T-shirt lifted to reveal the pale swirl of her navel. Above the low waistband of her jeans he glimpsed the rise of her pelvic bones, the lace edge of her underwear—dark blue.

God, he thinks, this world of women! They're everywhere.

"Coming or going?" she asks.

"Going."

"To?"

"Atlanta. Yourself?"

"Boston," she says, before returning to her book. A pinprick of cold air blasts from the overhead fan.

He looks out the window, at the green hills and blue bay. There is a pleasant, unexpected awkwardness as they silently wait for the plane to begin taxiing.

At this moment—it is not so improbable!—their thoughts converge. They are both thinking that it is a fairly long flight, five hours. A great deal can happen in five hours. Really, there is no need to rush.