"Not at all. I get you. I believe every person on this planet needs human contact to be normal, to be sane. Simple as that. And, I'll admit, I'm no exception."

She hadn't been brave enough to say it so directly, didn't want to appear the pathetic single mother. "Maybe you have a point," she says. "I mean, it's probably just normal."

"More than normal."

She crosses her legs tightly-she's dying to pee. She was too busy prettifying herself before to remember to use the toilet. She doesn't want to seem like she has a bladder problem, but she can't hold it much longer. "I'm going to stretch my legs a second," she says. Instead of using the toilet at the front of the plane, she saunters toward the tail. Out of his sight, she sidesteps into the bathroom. She sits in there after she's done, thinking.

She smells her forearm, which touched his. He has a particular scent-kind of nice, actually. What is it? Manly. Skin smell. Wonder what his place in Via dei Serpenti is like. Empty wine bottles, half-burnt candles, wax stains in the rug. A small place, he said, which suggests that he's there alone. She couldn't invite him to her place in Rome, with the kids. Well, eventually, maybe. For the next few days, she's got a four-star hotel room in Atlanta. She gets a tingle. Forget it, you freak. But it would be nice to hang out a bit. Talk. He's cute, no? Surprisingly. Totally natural. Nice to have a bit of company. A proper grown-up. Having a man around again. Forgotten what that's like. This hotel they always put her in-wouldn't it be cool if… Hang on. Stop. This is the travel coma speaking: getting all weird and flirty. The Ott board meeting. Think about that. Should get this guy's number, though. Find out when he gets back to Rome. Meet up there.

The in-flight movie is starting when she gets back. He has her headphones ready. It's a comedy. She keeps the volume low so she can still hear herself-she doesn't want to giggle too loudly or too stupidly or not enough. He has a nice chuckle. Wry, honest. When he laughs, he turns to her, twinkling. "We need popcorn."

"You're so right!"

The stewardess trundles a trolley down the aisle, delivering the second meal.

Abbey checks her watch. "Which is this? Lunch number two? Feels like dinner."

"Sort of a dinner-lunch," Dave says.

"What would you call that? A dlunch?"

"Or a linner."

"Unless it's a mix of lunch and supper. Then you've got slupper," she says. "Or slunch."

"Slunch. I like that. We should trademark that."

We? Hmm. Interesting.

"Hey, listen, Dave," she says. "We should get together sometime in Rome. Don't you think? Get a coffee or a drink or something? When you get back."

"Yeah, totally. That's a good idea."

"You should give me your number."

"My number in Rome?"

"Yeah."

"I don't have one there."

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't live there anymore."

Each of them is puzzled by the other.

"I don't live there anymore," he repeats. "Can't afford two rents."

"Two? Where's the other?"

"In San Jose."

"I'm totally lost here."

"My new job. In San Jose, California."

"Oh, oh, oh," she says, faking a smile. "I'm so stupid. I thought you meant-when you said before you'd got a new job-I stupidly assumed you meant in Rome."

"No, no, I don't have papers to work in Europe anymore. And, anyhow, I was ready to get back to the States."

"So what is your new job?" she asks hurriedly, as if the location were insignificant.

"Some Web thing. Helping edit this music-mag start-up. A Web-based magazine, basically."

"Okay. I'm beginning to get it," she says. "But…"

"What?"

"No, nothing."

"Your ears are all red," he says. "You okay?"

Can't believe he just said that. What an assholish thing to say-to point that out. "Yeah, I'm fine," she replies sharply.

The food arrives. He takes chicken. It's the last one. She wanted chicken. She takes fish. Kind of rude not to have asked her.

"How's yours?" he asks.

"Fine." After a minute, she adds, "Would have preferred chicken. But, whatever."

"You want to switch?"

"No, no. No big deal." She puts down her cutlery, opens a binder, and resumes work. Rather, she glowers at the page. What an idiotic thing for him to say. To point out to somebody: Hey there, by the way, you're blushing. Is he five years old? And how is she supposed to know he's moving to California? He says it like it's obvious, like the whole world has been following his life.

He opens Persuasion again but remains on the same page, picking at the skin around his cuticles.

Disgusting. And is he really reading that book at all? Is this some kind of show? To be fair, this isn't the brightest guy on earth. Good ol' boy from wherever. Some podunk town in Georgia. This is a guy who couldn't hack it at the paper, who was outclassed by those Thorazineaddled cretins on the copydesk. When she wanted to ax a job from the editorial side, Dave Belling was the most expendable-a real accomplishment among a group of such disposable losers. (In fairness, Abbey's first choice had been Ruby Zaga, but Kathleen interceded to protect her.)

"Excuse me," Abbey says, rising without explanation. She walks down their aisle, up the other, then back again. She spies the crown of Dave's head from behind. Going bald. What is wrong with guys? Half are molting; half are nothing but undergrowth. Is there some link between baldness and assholishness? Or hairiness and being dumb? It wasn't by chance that she got Dave fired. Kathleen had wanted all nine layoffs to come from the technical staff. But Abbey insisted that at least one come from editorial-time to teach the newsroom a lesson. She checked that Dave's performance evaluations were impeccably mediocre and that he had no insurmountable allies-i.e., Kathleen or Herman-then filed the paperwork for dismissal. Thank God, too. Imagine if she had to see this jerk every day at work now.

She goes over her files until they arrive in Atlanta. The plane taxis toward the gate, the seat-belt sign turns off, the economy-class detainees unfold themselves, arms shooting for the overhead bins. By contrast, Dave stretches casually and yawns. "Can I get your bag for you?"

"No, please just leave it. I have some fragile stuff in there."

The front exit opens and the crowd inches toward it, disembarking to the plodding rhythm of the cabin crew's "Bye now… bye now… bye now."

Dave waits for her to gather her belongings.

"Please-go ahead," she says.

"It's no problem."

She stalls for as long as possible. "No need to wait for me. Seriously."

"It's fine."

In the terminal, he veers toward the baggage carousel.

"Well, take care then," she says.

"You only had carry-on?"

"Always."

"Where you staying, by the way?"

"I forget. Some hotel."

"Which one?"

"Can't remember. The Intercontinental, possibly."

"Maybe we could share a cab."

"Don't you have to get going to wherever it is you have to go? Your hometown? Anyway, I'm expensing the ride, so I'll get my own. Otherwise, the receipts get too complicated."

"Oh," he says. "Well, hey."

"Yup. Take care."

He leans in to kiss her cheek.

She pulls back. "Don't want to give you my cold." She shakes his hand.

At the Intercontinental, she lays out her work on the desk. She wasted too much time yakking to that idiot. She keeps yawning. She needs to stay up, to adjust to the time difference immediately-it's the only way. She checks the clock. Too late to call the kids. But how can you not mention that your new job is in San Jose? Whatever. When's the first meeting tomorrow morning? A breakfast thing. Welcome back to the land of bad coffee and doughnuts the size of toilet seats. What was the point of him flirting the whole time if he lives in another city? Her desk in the hotel room is backed by a mirror. She catches sight of herself. She'd kill to have a chat with Henry. Travel coma is making her weepy.