I leave Taipei at 9 p.m. When I land in New York thirteen hours later, I will travel back in time. It feels like magic, no matter how many times I do it. 

Today, a man with a peanut-shaped mole sits in 1A. Rachel and I always called it the best seat in the house. Easy to on- and off-board from, with reliably quick service and a clear view of the fluffy clouds without the interruption of an airplane wing. 1A is the apotheosis of success, the final rung of the ladder, the very tippy top of Maslow’s triangle. “When I can afford to sit in 1A,” Rachel would whisper, laying next to me on a single mattress in the crew rest compartment, “that’s when I’ll have made it.”

Although I have flown this route countless times, my recent promotion has finally granted me unfettered access to the first-class cabin—including 1A. My additional charges include: greeting each passenger as they board (we call them guests in first class), taking guests’ drink orders (before, during, and after the wheels have touched the tarmac), making guests’ “beds,” tutoring guests on their touchscreen televisions. Catering to whatever whim, whenever, the best we can at 30,000 to 42,000 feet in the sky. My responsibilities evoke the babysitting gigs that funded my useless college degree; playing spot-the-difference between a kid hypnotized by his iPad and a businessman locked into CNN on his in-flight screen is an impossible task. A juice box or a whiskey, at their core, are both designed to placate. 

Flying is a predictable experience. The almond biscuits are a dry mouthful of pure crunch. The blue cheese is inedible. We depart in one time zone and arrive in another. “Coffee, tea, cocktail?” is a phrase I know in twelve languages and often the only thing I say all day. The plane is my preferred reality. My safe and certain cocoon. Besides, it’s harder to overanalyze faces when they’re slack-mouthed and close-eyed. 

In the sky, life has different rules. Drink red wine at 7 a.m. Watch a movie while hovering over the Atlantic Ocean. There are fifty to eighty-two films at any given time in our in-flight entertainment catalogue, which render as staticky pixels with loud yellow subtitles on the tiny seatback screen. Sometimes the films are censored. Apparently some airline got into hot water when a few guests sued after their toddler inadvertently witnessed a beheading. As a result, our screens cycled through credit card commercials for a month while a third party conducted a full review of the film catalogue. Other than the period in high school after Dad left and Mom glared accusingly whenever she saw me, this was the worst month of my life. 

After we reach cruising altitude and the cabin ceilings illuminate with artificial constellations, I binge single-serving chocolate ice creams and watch the guests from my jump seat. Watching feels safer than being seen. My favorite game is to guess the film selection of each guest. Most of the time, it’s easy: the silicon princess in the velour jumpsuit picks the latest steamy romance flick; the stoic man in the suit sucks down four negronis during his three-hour war epic; the moody teenager with his hood pulled up tight falls asleep during an experimental indie film. Other times, I delight in unexpected pairings: the Japanese businessman, dabbing his eyes with the airplane blanket at Finding Nemo; the prim lady with the greying perm mouthing along to High School Musical; the blonde waif in the incandescent sheet mask patting her face gently as Ghostface slays misbehaving teenagers. 

And so I serve sanitized people in their sanitized boxes watching their sanitized films. I present a sanitized version of myself, too, my hair tightly coiled and stiff as I perform endless half-bows, distributing snacks and drinks with both hands, dispensing a canned smile in spite of guests’ eyes locking to the screens in front of them. I like that in the air, I don’t have a name. I am only a body. 

Ding. As we fly over Tokyo lights, 1A summons me with the service button.

“How can I help you?” I say, reaching over to disable the light above his head. 

“What’s your favorite film of the current lineup?” 

His question catches me off-guard. Guests don’t normally ask personal questions, unless it’s with sordid intention. But he appears more curious than solicitous. I’m flattered, until I realize the question is a bit like when a diner asks a waitress what their favorite dish is. Unless we have identical taste buds, I see the question as pointless.

“When Harry Met Sally just got added,” I say. “One of my favorites. Completely uncensored.” 

“I’ll give it a shot, thank you.” 1A smiles. It’s a dazzling smile, completely void of pretense. I ask him if I can help with anything else.

“A dirty gin martini, please. With a maraschino cherry if you have it.” 

Bemusement overtakes my polite expression but I say nothing. As I prepare his drink, I peer at 1A from behind the curtain. He’s handsome, in a nonintimidating way. Not at all like the airbrushed actors in first class who treat flight attendants like invisible servants. He has salt-and-pepper stubble with soft brown eyes hidden behind the thin wire-rimmed glasses endemic to the stoically smart anime characters I crushed on as a kid. He looks about a decade older than me, probably in his early forties. He’s wearing the in-flight pajamas—a navy set made from recycled fabrics and embroidered with my airline’s swooshy logo. I’m overtaken with a desire to remember his street clothes. The screen flickers in his narrow lenses. I wonder if he took me up on my recommendation. When I drop off his drink, his eyes meet mine. He gives a toothy smile and a thumbs-up at the screen: Sally has just dropped Harry off at Washington Square Park after their contentious drive to New York City. The best parts are still coming up. A genuine grin replaces my canned smile as he toasts in my direction, tilting the glass back, muddying the drink with a phosphorescent red trail. 

It takes an active effort to suppress my smile for the rest of the flight. As the tires hit the tarmac, I listen to 1A’s purrlike snores.

---

Usually I am completely dissociated by baggage claim. After the exhausting task of bowing to each guest as they deplane, I sweep the aircraft, remove invasive objects from seat pockets, compile blankets, dispose of errant trash, and retrieve items for the lost and found. My record time is 5 minutes and 39 seconds but ever since I heard another airline average 3 minutes and 21 seconds, I have been determined to beat them. I am the fastest of my colleagues, clearing two cabins in less time a newbie does half of one. It is the only quality the other flight attendants admire me for.

Ever since Rachel got poached by EVA Air five months ago, I hardly speak to anyone but guests during the long flights. I spotted her after deplaning, walking with her new crew in their stupid Roman Holiday–inspired uniforms, giggling down a moving walkway. I waved hello but she turned her head, pretended like she didn’t see me. 

At baggage claim, the other flight attendants from my flight huddle like frilly penguins near the pilots. A homogenous flock still dressed in our uniforms: a golden ascot, white short-sleeved button-up tucked into a knee-length black cotton skirt, sheer pantyhose, and a half-heel shoe. I’d changed into an oversized Tokyo Disney long-sleeved tee and a plain pair of black sweatpants in the aircraft lavatory. Wearing my uniform off the plane would disturb the hermetic reality of my preferred existence. (Like running into an elementary school teacher in the grocery store.) The only things I keep on are my shoes; I know I look silly with my sweatpants above my heel but I’d rather that than lug around a pair of bulky sneakers.

I’m still pulling bobby pins from my top bun when 1A approaches, standing close enough it’s obvious he’s not just waiting for the baggage carousel to begin its whir. He’s still wearing his airplane pajamas. For once I wish I hadn’t changed out of my uniform. I cross my arms over my shirt but it’s no use: Mickey Mouse’s ears are still visible above my elbows.

“So,” 1A says. “Where do you usually stay in the city?”

He avoids meeting my eyes and instead, we stare ahead at the opening spout of the baggage carousel. It’s impossible to ignore how close our shoulders are. I pray my face isn’t too red. “I usually stay at a crash pad near the airport,” I say. “My next flight’s tomorrow night, so I like to be close.”

I’ve stayed at the same crash pad near JFK three times now. Six flight attendants cram on three bunk beds in a bedroom beside the shared kitchen and bathroom. It’s nice, though smaller than even the cheapest dormitories in Asia. The crash pad is hosted by “Captain Ken,” or so he dubs himself on the website. He’s a creep but he mostly stays at his timeshare in Thailand. The one time I ran into him was in the kitchen when he asked, a bottle of Josh Merlot in hand, if I could take some shirtless photos for his dating profile on the rooftop because it was “prime golden hour.” I politely declined and proceeded to lock myself in my room for the remainder of my two-day layover, eating the pretzels I save for emergencies, leaving only for my morning runs. I hear from the other girls he moved full-time to Thailand so I’m not as scared anymore, although my layover plan is still to hide away until my flight and watch as many movies as I can on my laptop. 

1A considers this information, which I didn’t realize I was volunteering until I hear his chuckle. “What if you stayed with me instead? I’m headed to my place in the Hamptons. I’m not sure how it’ll measure up next to Captain Ken’s, but…”

The baggage carousel cuts him off. My turquoise duffel is the first to plummet down the mechanical path. I step forward and sling it over my left shoulder. In the distance, I hear Rachel’s raspy laugh as she approaches the neighboring baggage carousel. I want to telepath to her—I’m laying over with 1A!— until I remember we aren’t friends anymore.

“You know, you’re not really supposed to wear those off the plane,” I say to 1A.

“I like how they feel.” He smiles sheepishly, pulling at the hem of the pajama top. “It makes me feel like we’re still in the sky.”

“I don’t even know your name,” I say. 

“I’m Sawyer,” he says. “What’s yours?”

“Sofie.” 

---

Sawyer carries our bags inside after the silent two-hour ride with his driver, whose only words were a rhetorical question: “How was your flight?” A question whose only answer can be: “It was fine.” Cars feel inefficient after a decade of plane rides, though there is a delight to cracked windows and fresh air that won’t kill you. I doze in and out with my head on the window, trying to make sense of the dark blurs of the highway.

We enter through a keyless door. The code is 9-3-8-7 and I cycle through possible combinations in my head: Z-E-U-S? Y-E-T-S? W-E-T-S? I don’t want to ask. I store this information in preparation for my morning run. Who knows when he rises? I would not wait for a man’s consciousness to engage in my morning rituals. 

Sawyer presses something on his phone, and the fireplace bursts into being. I jump back, alarmed, but his demeanor softens. He surprises me by monologuing for five minutes about the virtues of When Harry Met Sally and his desire to immediately rewatch the film. His eagerness reminds me of Maxwell, the lonely six-year-old I babysat in college who rambled about his day as if he spent it wordless just waiting for a captive audience. I picture Sawyer as a grown-up Maxwell: a rich boy accustomed to drivers and babysitters who get paid to care. 

Standing in front of a brass bar cart with only top-shelf liquor and clear bottles of maraschino cherries, gelatinously preserved strawberries, and tiny mason jars with masking tape labels like “rosemary syrup” or “smoked sage,” Sawyer asks if I’d like a drink. “Surprise me,” I say. I heard this in a pornographic video recently but it turns out the statement is less turn-on and more riddle when said at midnight to a jet-lagged stranger. Sawyer’s brows arch in confusion. “I like Aperol and Lemon Drops,” I add quickly, steering him towards a familiar direction. He flashes a smile and peddles his fingers excitedly. “I know just the thing.”

Layover romance eschews traditional dating rules, skipping past steps due to its temporal urgency. I once had a guy in Milan propose after we spent two days riding around on his moped. He thought it was love. I thought he was just a really good tour guide. I scan the living room for weapons (a good stewardess always has eyes on the emergency exits), and my eyes land on a decorative sword hanging on the wall. I wrinkle my nose. The whole place stinks of nouveau riche. Money can’t buy taste; my mother taught me that. At her restaurant job, she carried trays of sweet and sour pork to a snobby couple dressed in tight leather pants, matching bedazzled baseball caps, and Louis Vuitton slippers. They tipped her two dollars for their $200 meal and left behind most of their food, uneaten. Little did they know Mr. Chao let Mom take home any leftovers. That tacky couple fed me and mom for weeks.

My feet linger as they drag across the dark wooden floor. I lie on my side as the fire burns against my back, trying to arrange myself in a suggestive pose on a plush deskinned bear rug in the shape of Antarctica. Then I remember my outfit—the sweatpants and the hoodie, Mickey Mouse and his ears—and the rest of me heats in embarrassment. I consider trying out another movie line—Let me slip into something more comfortable—until I remember I have nothing but spandex in my duffel. 

Sawyer shuffles over with two glasses: his maraschino martini and my yellow cocktail adorned with a lemon rind curled like a pig’s tail. “It’s called a Shotgun Wedding,” he says as we clink. I take a sip. It tastes like a Warhead. “Mmm,” I say ambiguously through puckered lips. He plops down beside me, pretzeling his legs together, and we listen to the fire crackle beside us. I break the silence, gesturing around to the high ceilings. “Nice place.”

“It’s my parents’ place,” he says. “They live in a brownstone right off Prospect Park during the year.”

“Do they know you’re here?”

“No,” he says. “Our lives are parallel lines that hardly intersect. Where are your parents?”

“I have no clue,” I say truthfully. “My dad left when I was in high school, and I haven’t talked to my mom in years.” After Dad disappeared, Mom retreated. She condemned me until my post-baby fat face morphed into a separate one from Dad’s, but even then her affection never returned. We simply stopped talking. There was no fight, no yelling match, no political incompatibility or cutting out of the will. When I stopped reaching out, she did too, and so we carried out the separate existences we had been rehearsing for decades. Last I heard, she was on a cruise around the heel of Italy with her third husband.

“So, what do you do?” I ask, hoping this deflection loosens the squeeze around my heart. I try to subdue my desperation for his touch, for his answers, which feel like brushstrokes in the mental portrait I’m painting of him. In my head, it’s swirly olive green and neon red just like his maraschino martini. 

Sawyer drags his sip out before responding. “I cure loneliness,” he says in an unironic deadpan. I laugh so hard my nostrils burn with the scent of citrus. “That has got to be the worst pick-up line I have ever heard,” I say when I finally compose myself.

“I’m being serious,” he says, even as his eyes smile. 

“What exactly does that mean?” 

“Nearly one in four adults across the world have reported feeling very or fairly lonely,” he recites as if from a sales pitch. “Loneliness has become a public health issue. Mortality rates go up, worker satisfaction goes down, economies plummet… Companies hire me to fix their workers’ loneliness.”

“So, you’re a therapist?”

“Not exactly,” he says. “It’s more… metaphysical than that.” He sets down his drink on the rug and turns to me. “Tell me. Do you experience loneliness?” 

“I don’t know. I mean, I’m alone most of the time. But just because I’m alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely. My solitude is my choice,” I say, somewhat defensively, even though it’s the truth. It’s far easier to deal with the consequences of your actions when you don’t implicate others in them. It goes both ways: in the safe bubble of isolation, no one can hurt you either. “How exactly do you cure loneliness?” I ask. 

Wordlessly, Sawyer stands and disappears into a dark room. I consider how easy it would be to slip one of my pocket Ambien in his cocktail. The open flame illuminates the drink like the sun on a river, its waves pulsing and beckoning. A trick of the eye. Sawyer re-emerges and grabs his drink like he senses my silent mutiny. In his other hand is a metal dome with nodes on the ends of tentacled cords and a small rectangular screen affixed to the front like on a glucose monitor.

“May I?” He gestures to put the dome on me. I tilt my head forward in consent. 

“Are you ready?” He has a minuscule remote control in one hand and his red drink in the other. The maraschino cherry leaks like blood or broken neon.

“I don’t know what I’m signing up for, but okay.” 

He presses a tiny button on the tiny remote and I hear the THX whir that used to play before movies. The dome warms on my head. I feel like Alex in A Clockwork Orange. The device’s beeps rapidly rise and then steady like the light-up meter of a carnival game to test one’s strength. “Finish your drink,” he says. “Lie down, or it won’t work.”

I do as I’m told, a little aroused by his authoritative tone. I rest my head atop the bear’s nose, putting the empty highball glass on my bare midriff, its condensation leaking droplets into my belly button. It feels so good to be horizontal.

“Now close your eyes.” As soon as I do, I feel a sensation in my toes. An interrogative feeling, as if a thousand hands are taking a thousand blunt sewing needles and repeatedly poking at my pinky toe. It reminds me of the time I went to Thailand and my then-boyfriend insisted we get a fish pedicure. We sat there as desperate fish gorged on the dead skin cracking off our heels. I learned afterward the way they got the fish to stay hungry was to not feed them anything else so epidermal flakes become the only source of sustenance for these poor fish. 

The sensation travels up my legs and through my thighs. Pleasure courses when the sewing needles pass through my pelvis, the slight pressure causing my legs to fan out wider. When it reaches my chest, I feel something shift like loose luggage sliding in an overhead bin. The device beeps when it reaches my head, indicating completion. The nodes depressurize and release the tight hold. Air snakes onto my scalp as Sawyer puts the device back in its case. I sit up.

“That’s it?” I say, disappointed at my lack of transformation. 

“That’s it.” He smiles.

The cherry bleeds a slow thread down his glass. Then it drifts back upward. I blink and try to shake off the exhaustion that suddenly overtakes me. I wrap my arms around the plush bear’s neck. Sawyer shakes out an impossibly soft blanket over me as if he’s a magician about to levitate me away, and I feel it drift softly over my body—first my arms, then a ripple down to my toes. Wait, I want to say. I don’t want to go. Sawyer’s back is turned to me now. Please, don’t go. But my body surrenders to slumber and the last thing I remember is watching my body as it floats away, weightless.

---

There’s snow on the ground when I wake. A dim winter glow emanates from the window and I see that flakes are still falling. Somehow, I’ve wound up on a bed—the biggest bed I’ve ever seen, still wrapped in the softest blanket I’ve ever felt. I wonder if being rich simply means enough money for all the superlatives. I rise, clutching the blanket, and glide towards a set of sliding doors to feel the snowflakes on my skin. I go back inside to find my running shoes. Sawyer is asleep on the couch. I tiptoe past the front entrance and start jogging on the snowy beach, whispering the door code out loud as a mantra: 9-3-8-7, 9-3-8-7.

It’s foggy out. I’m wearing my blush pink vest and matching sweat-wicking headband. My fingerless gloves are an alien neon green. I scan the neighborhood, which is as quiet as it was last night. An eerie silence, more zombie-apocalypse than behind-closed-doors. I feel like the last woman left on earth. All the houses look like they could belong in the same issue of Architectural Digest, some special edition on bloated beach houses. After a study came out about the uniformity of interior design being psychologically soothing to anxious flyers, we started carrying copies of that magazine in all seat back pockets. The houses look fake, like plastic toys. Adult Lego. I imagine the rich convening with their architects and landscapers: Make me the house of my dreams. A bunch of Barbies and Kens in their ticky-tacky dreamhouses. I try to picture Sawyer’s parents but draw a blank. He feels like somebody drawn from nothing. 

In the silence of the suburban streets, snippets of my past life, before the airplanes, come to me for the first time in years: Dad’s glasses illuminated with the reflection of a Chinese news broadcast, a plate of diced honeydew, the mechanical rattle of a garage door lifting, the stink of a Bath and Body Works eucalyptus rain candle. I repeat my spell to cast away these visions: 9-3-8-7, 9-3-8-7. 

Apart from my incantation, the only noises are the ambient and ever-present whoosh of the Atlantic and the soft chaw of my sneakers alternating in the snow. I veer onto the fifth pier I see. The fog is so strong it’s hard to delineate between the white ocean and the condensation in the air. Two lifeguard towers, white and shining with authority, watch the waves in silent communion. Pods of resilient bulrushes sprout from underneath snow piles. I run in place to watch a plane fly across the sky. For the first time in a long time, I’m glad to be on the ground. 

One of my only memories with Dad is a snow day when he took me to the Outer Banks. Mom had a lunch shift and the auto shop where Dad worked was closed. There was also no one else on the beach that day, save for a lone dog with mysterious origins. The dog never got close enough for us to check its collar, just ran in circles in the distance like a specter. Dad said the dog was a ghost and I believed him. We called him Casper.

That day, we played a game by taking turns shouting as hard and long as we could into the void of the Ocean. Dad’s began more as bellows but got progressively higher-pitched the longer he sustained them. Both of our throats were sore for days afterward. Tears started falling during his third scream. He told me it was the cold air wetting his eyes, allergies sniffling his nose, but we both knew he was lying. Afterwards, he took me to the only open ice cream shop that time of year and we sat under dingy fluorescents with a teenage employee no doubt wondering why we were there when there was snow on the sidewalks. I got cotton candy extravaganza, an excessively sprinkled affair that stained my tongue blue. Dad got chocolate, as always. 

I replay our game on the empty beach. As I do, I feel a prickle in my toes and I think of the hungry fish again, those poor fish. My throat is sore but I keep screaming. This time no one responds. 

---

Sawyer’s facing the stove when I get back. There’s a towel slung over his shoulder and the smell of coffee is so strong it feels like someone doused me with a hot cup over my head. “Good morning,” I say uneasily. I’m taken aback by how nice it feels to see him, my strong desire to approach him and wrap my arms around his waist and breathe in his freshly laundered scent. I wonder what expression he’s wearing at this exact moment and I’m pleased when he turns to see it’s one of twinkling delight. 

“Coffee, tea, cocktail?” He asks. “Coffee,” I say with a smile, and he extends an already full mug in my direction. The coffee is the ideal shade of brown, exactly how I take it. Our hands touch and my skin prickles again. I settle onto a bar stool and cradle the mug to warm my hands. “How was your run?” Sawyer asks. The question sounds part of an established routine, the domesticity so natural that I lean into it. “It was good,” I say, and cough, my throat still a little sore. I watch as he cracks an egg onto a pan with one hand. 

 “When is your flight?” He asks over the sizzle.

“Later tonight, I think.” I try to recall the flight number but my mind draws a blank. I chug my coffee to jolt myself awake. It tastes just like the bulk beans we get on the plane. Sawyer places a plate with a perfect omelette dotted with chives in front of me. He watches as I scarf down a bite. It tastes as perfect as it looks.

“What?” I ask. I wipe my mouth. It has been so long since I’ve shared a meal, I forgot dining etiquette exists.

Sawyer shakes his head, smiling. “When was the last time somebody took care of you?” He asks.

I think of Rachel towing my turquoise duffel through LaGuardia that time I woke up with a crick in my neck after a night at Captain Ken’s. It was 15:18 and we were running to catch our 16:00 flight. The flight we were supposed to attend was cancelled, so we redirected our free weekend to Miami. We wore expensive accessories we pocketed during our sweeps and flirted with old men who took us around in their convertibles, clutching our silk scarves like old Hollywood starlets. In the dimly lit room of our budget motel, Rachel dripped pool water on our queen-sized mattress, still wearing her maroon swimsuit, her legs long and unblemished, as she plastered a Salonpas onto my neck. We were both tipsy from Aperols and our congenial autonomy. When she finished, we coiled our legs together and watched Thelma & Louise because she had never seen it. Rachel fell asleep midway through, which irritated me, though there was a sliver that was glad she never saw how the movie ended. Perhaps the film, in her mind, is still preserved in amber as a buddy comedy with a happy ending. Tenderness washes over me, as well as a niggling guilt for leaving her last few texts unanswered. 

“It’s been a while,” is all I can muster in response. I focus intently on cutting my omelette and Sawyer pulls the bar stool out for me to sit (you get pretty good at eating standing up as a flight attendant). I mentally draft a response to Rachel and as I sit, remind myself to chew. When I look up, Sawyer’s inspecting me. His eyes quickly lilt above me and it becomes my turn. I watch as his face adorably reddens, though his peanut-shaped mole remains the same brown. He coughs. “What do you want to do with your last day on land?” he asks.

“I want chocolate ice cream,” I say, sliding off the bar stool and retrieving the fluffy blanket, which he folded into a neat square during my run. I drape it around me like a cape. “I want to spend the entire day in this blanket.” Sawyer smiles.

“Can we watch When Harry Met Sally again?” he asks. 

“Deal.” I grin into my mug. 

---

By the time the credits roll for our fourth film, it’s completely dark out. We’re cocooned underneath the blanket, having inched closer together throughout our movie marathon. The physical intimacy feels familiar, as if we’ve been doing this across lifetimes. But we are at the end of the Before trilogy and my lips remain sorely unkissed. Sawyer is frustratingly but sweetly fixated on the plots, exclaiming with childish joy at each revelation. Finally, he turns to me. 

“I don’t want you to think the reason I invited you over was with any ulterior motive,” he says. “But I’d like to kiss you now, Sofie. Is that okay?”

The formality of his request is simultaneously endearing and confounding. I’m not used to chivalry in courtship. I nod and Sawyer hunches forward, his hands tucked shyly between his knees like he’s Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles and there’s a birthday cake between us. When our lips touch, it’s a tentative spark that quickly ablazes. Our bodies crash against each other and his eager palms chart a path along my ribs. My heart lurches like turbulence. Our fervor slows and he rests a palm on my thigh. Serenity washes over me as I inspect his face, his eyes, his mole. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. A muffled thrum like takeoff rumbles in the back of my mind. We grin at each other. We both know I am going to miss my flight.

This piece is part of the Summer 2026 issue.