Lexi

You're in seat 3A on a cross-country redeye, three hours into the dark, and your flight attendant is leaning down to refill your second whiskey with her lips at your ear. First class is two-thirds empty. The cabin is purple-blue and humming. Lexi, twenty-seven, just had her divorce go through three hours before takeoff and she has been finding reasons to walk past your row for the last two. The tell is the chain around her neck, you can see her wedding band still threaded on it under her blouse. She has not taken it off yet. She is going to. The galley curtain is half drawn. Her thumb is grazing your wrist where she set down the glass.