"What?" he asks.
"No, nothing. Nothing. I was just thinking," she says. "You seem very strong about that. Very, like you don't have self-pity. I have a lot of admiration for that."
He smiles abashedly. "Not really."
"No, seriously."
He picks at his cuticle. "I'm sure you're the same about your divorce."
"You only say that because you haven't heard me mouthing off about my poor ex! Not that he's poor in any sense of the word. Kind of a rich jerk-off, actually. Excuse my language."
"Why's he a jerk-off?"
She twitches her head as if swooped by a bee. "Just is. I don't know. We had this passionate love affair-I thought. Now I suspect he just wanted to improve his English."
"Nah."
"I'm not entirely kidding. He's this terrible Anglophile. He insisted we give our kids these traditional British names, or names he thought were traditional."
"Like what?"
"Henry, Edith, and Hilda."
"That's like something from Victorian England."
She covers her face. "I know, I know. I'm so embarrassed. He forced them on me! I swear. I was young and dumb. Keep in mind that these names are also impossible for Italians to pronounce. So their own grandparents in Milan -really good people, I have to say-can't even say their own grandkids' names. It's ridiculous."
"So where's the ex-husband now?"
" London. He was so in love with it, he moved there. Supposedly to find a place big enough for all of us. I even gave in my resignation-I was an assistant in accounts back then, before I did my MBA. Then he sends me this letter about how he has 'nervous problems,' whatever that means. There was a slow, ugly end. Never told me directly about his girlfriend. He lives there now. In London. With her."
"Some proper English girl, I guess."
"Actually, to my great amusement she's from Naples."
"Well," Dave says, laughing, "if that ain't a kick in the pants."
She smiles at this funny expression. "I certainly thought so," she continues. "Ah well. How old are you, Dave, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Forty-five. You?"
"Forty. Just turned forty."
"Seriously?" he says. "You're younger than I thought."
"Oh gee, thanks a lot."
"No, no, I don't mean it that way. I mean you're young to have such an important job. And three kids and all that. Puts me to shame."
The conversation falters. She is facing him and can't inconspicuously turn away.
"Shall we read a bit?" he suggests, opening the book to where they were.
"That's nice of you, but you go ahead. I should do some work."
She glances at him now and then. They smile at each other and he waggles the book, saying, "Not tempted?"
After a stretch of work, she turns to make a joke. But he is asleep, the book flat on his chest. Jane Austen, she thinks, what guy reads Jane Austen? He's not gay, is he? Doesn't seem gay. She hasn't known many Southerners. That twang and aw-shucks about him-it's sort of exotic. Very natural.
What if he wakes and catches her scrutinizing him? So she studies him from the corner of her eye. He's not especially tall, though it's hard to tell seated. Sweatshirt, jeans, hiking shoes. A relaxed, outdoorsy look. His hand on the book is small, but angular and strong, fingernails bitten, cuticles mismanaged. More to him than meets the eye. His divorce obviously still hurts. He's private, though-not a guy to bleed his life over you.
He shifts in his sleep and his arm hops up onto the rest between them, touching her elbow. She holds still, decides to allow the contact, resumes breathing.
An hour later, he yawns and blinks to wakefulness. "Sorry about that."
"About what?" she whispers.
"Think I fell asleep for a minute," he replies softly. "Hey, how come we're whispering?"
"Maybe because the lights are off." She points toward the toilets. "Sorry, I need to go up there for a minute."
"Oh man," he says, unbuckling his seat belt and leaping to his feet. "Did I have you trapped in here?"
"Not at all. Not at all." She sucks in her tummy and squeezes out into the aisle, retrieves her handbag from the overhead bin, and heads for the bathroom. Safely inside, she studies herself, hardly flattered by the lighting. "I look fucking terrible." She takes the roll-on deodorant from her bag, stripes it across her underarm. She unpacks refreshing towelettes, wipes her face and hands, swabs on foundation to conceal her blotchiness, adds a trace of eyeliner, a stroke of lipstick. Or not. She kisses it off onto a paper towel, considers the scratched metal reflection one last time, plucks an eyelash from her cheek. She adjusts her underwire, which was pinching, glances down her shirt: a tattered black bra. She peeks down her trousers: blue granny panties. Nice combo: funeral lace on top and parachute material on bottom. Don't be stupid-who cares. One more refreshing towelette. Done.
She stops at their row. "Hey."
He jumps to his feet. "Hey there."
She inhales and slides back into place.
"You take a shower in there?"
"Why? Because I took so long?"
"Because you look, like, so awake and stuff. I don't know how you girls manage that. When I travel, I look like a pair of old boots."
"We ladies have our secrets," she declares with pride.
"Well," he responds enthusiastically, "I'm all for that."
Not gay, she thinks. "Listen, it's only plane travel," she says, touching his arm. "Nobody expects anyone to look their best."
"You're sure doing pretty good," he says, voice subsiding at the baldness of the compliment. "Anyhow," he picks up, "I reckon I'll go freshen up a bit myself. Even if I'm not working with so much."
"Oh stop it."
He returns, slapping damp hands against his cheeks. "Better." He drops into his seat. "Better."
"So," she says. "Anyway."
A moment of silence.
"So," she attempts again, "do you like living in Rome? Do you have millions of friends and everything?"
"Sort of. I mean not millions. I didn't speak any Italian at the get-go, which held me back."
"Still, I bet you had tons of girls chasing you, right? The single American journalist and all that."
"Not so much. For a while, I dated this girl from New Zealand that worked at this pub near my place."
"And where's that?"
"My place? In Monti. Via dei Serpenti."
"Cool area."
"Small apartment, but yeah. You know, one thing I learned in Rome is that the Italians are real friendly and stuff, but they got their cliques. You know? They hang out their whole lives with the same people they met in first grade. And if you weren't at that school, well, you're never getting a dinner invite. You know what I mean?"
"Absolutely. That's so Italian."
"Kind of hard to break into. For an American. Easier, I guess, for girls. Those slick Italian guys and so forth."
"You haven't bought into that Latin-lover myth, have you? Let me tell you a secret: Italian guys-and I know, I married one-are prima donnas, not studs. And I refuse to fall for a guy whose wardrobe is better than mine. A lot of these Italians, they're like little boys. My son, Henry, is way more mature and he's thirteen. A lot of them are still having Mama do their laundry, turn up their jeans, fix them mortadella sandwiches for lunch. They never quite get over it." She wiggles her nose. "What, me bitter? Sorry-no more tirades, I swear."
"It's kind of good to hear this, actually. I spent the last couple of years feeling like one big pile of American slob."
"Listen." She touches his arm confidentially. "You've seriously got nothing to worry about."
"Keep it coming. This is good for my ego after, like, two years of seeing Italian guys in pink sweaters and orange pants and, like, pulling it off. You know what I'm saying?"
She laughs.
"To tell the truth," he goes on, "the past six months or so, I've sort of given up on all that. On getting to know some Italian woman. Like, lost a bit of patience."
"How do you mean?"
"I guess I'm tired of getting burned. I know that sounds cynical. And, if you talked to me in my twenties and thirties, I used to be the most romantic guy. You should've seen me at my wedding. I was the one who pushed for a big ceremony. My ex wanted it all restrained. But I'm crazy that way. Over the top that way. Life'd be easier if I weren't a dumb romantic. But that's me. So."