Before You

I didn’t think those were unreasonable requests.

I certainly appreciated the few additional inches of space on the longer flights, like the one I was taking today. As I arrived at row fourteen, which was the emergency exit row, I stored my bag in the overhead bin, taking my tablet, earbuds, and coffee to the seat with me. The shade was down, so I lifted it, and through the darkness outside, I saw the gleaming white plane next to ours. Two men were loading luggage into the belly, lifting suitcases like they weighed only a few pounds. I was so focused on what they were doing that I almost didn’t see the reflection in the window of the man standing behind me.

When you flew weekly, you really took notice of the people you sat next to. As an observant person by nature who captured the finest details, I couldn’t help but see their characteristics. When my eyes traveled up the Plexiglas, I took in his stature and build. Both were impressive. Enough so I turned around to see more, and I got as high as his chest when he ducked. Within a second, I had his entire face memorized. Even the small lines at the corners of his eyelids and the harder ones on his forehead and the pieces in his beard that were speckled with gray. The most demanding of all his features were his eyes. They were the color of chocolate fudge and just as heavy as the thick dessert.

You didn’t stare at this man because of his looks, although he was extremely handsome. You stared at him because underneath his piercing gaze and expensive suit was someone profound.

I learned that after a one-second glance, and it took me completely off guard, to the point where, “Good morning,” randomly came pouring out of my mouth.

He was already in his seat, eyes on the newspaper that was on his lap. “Morning.”

His voice was extremely masculine, deep, a little rough like the coarseness that covered his cheeks.

Realizing I was still staring at him, I turned toward my tablet, opening the website for the restaurant I would be visiting tomorrow night. Studying the menu was the first step, and I always did it before I arrived. The menu set the tone and prepared me a bit for what to expect. Things like font and adjectives told me so much about a chef.

When I looked at Basil’s menu, simplicity was what came to mind. The dishes weren’t oversaturated with sides. They weren’t rich with description either. Three, four words maximum, with script font. Several of the main courses were named after Grandma Sofia.

This restaurant screamed traditional.

I was clicking the About page when the man next to me leaned forward and put his arm in the air. His other arm rose, too, and he began removing his jacket. Once it was off, he stood to put it in the overhead space. As he returned to his seat, I was reminded of what I had smelled earlier when he first sat down. It wasn’t an overpowering cologne. It was fresh, crisp, like the middle of the forest during a rainstorm.

A scent I would purchase for a boyfriend … if there were one.

Some things I could justify in my head, but needing to hear more of this man’s voice, I couldn’t. It was over a six-hour flight that I had to spend working, so there was no reason to strike up a conversation. But the desire to know more about him was stronger than wanting to get caught up on my email.

I faced him again. “Are you headed to San Francisco for work or play … or maybe that’s home?”

His eyes slowly shifted toward me, his hands still holding his paper upright, which told me he planned to return to it. Several beats of silence passed, the powerfulness in his gaze as thick as when he’d boarded.

And just as he opened his mouth, a flight attendant came over the intercom and said, “Thank you for boarding Flight Eighty-Eight with nonstop service to San Francisco,” cutting him off.

FIVE

JARED

“ARE you willing and able to help in the event of an emergency situation?” the flight attendant asked as she stood beside our row. She had appeared directly after the announcement that informed us that all of the passengers were now on board the plane to San Francisco and the pilots were doing their final preparations before Flight 88 pulled away from the gate.

“Yes,” I answered, and I should have gone back to the article on the housing market in lower Manhattan that I’d started when I was waiting to board. Instead, my eyes were on her.