Tom Rachman - The Imperfectionists

"Addictive, isn't it," he says graciously.

"That's a terrible habit of mine. Sorry."

"Don't be nuts. Here. Please." He opens the book between them on the armrest. "Want me to explain what's happening?"

"No, no-it's fine, really. I should do my work."

"See, that's why they fired me," he jokes. "Everybody else is working while I'm reading damn Jane Austen!"

Fired him? That's not how he characterized it before.

"Well, you certainly have a good sense of humor about it."

"Easier when you've got a new job."

"You do? Oh, that's so good to hear."

"Thanks. Yeah, the day after I got canned I was talking to this Italian buddy of mine and he told me about this position. Guess I'm lucky."

She wonders how old Dave Belling is. Roughly her age? Older by a bit?

"Hey, look," he says, "it's lunch number one coming down the aisle."

"Lunch number one?"

"Yeah, we get two lunches on this flight because of the time difference."

"Oh, hurrah."

"Seriously."

They eat their plastic chicken and rubber carrots and a pink confection, and make sardonic remarks about it all, as people will when faced with grim airplane food that they nonetheless consume to the crumbs.

"So why are you headed to Atlanta?" she asks.

"Just wanted to see my folks before I start the new job."

"You're from the area, then?"

"From Georgia, yeah. A little town called Ocilla."

"Nice place?"

"It's all right. Couldn't live there again. Grew up there, and that's enough for a lifetime. And you? Where you from?"

" Rochester, New York, originally."

"So you're an 'originally,' too. That means there's been a whole bunch of stops after originally."

"Not that many. I went to college in Binghamton, did a year abroad in Milan, which is where I met my husband. Not currently my husband. My ex. Though he wasn't that then. I never know how to say that."

"Allow my copydesk expertise to intervene: your then-pre-husband, later-to-be-post-husband in his prior-to-ex-husband status."

She laughs. "Is that how you'd phrase it in the paper?"

"Now you see why they fired me."

She smiles. "So anyway, yeah, I got involved with my whatever-he-is in Milan. He's from there. It was my first really significant romance, and I was-" She pauses.

"You were what?"

"I don't know. Stupid. Twenty-three."

"You can't complain-you got three kids out of the bargain."

"That's true. That's what I tell myself."

"I don't have any," he says. "Wanted them. But my wife-my then wife-didn't. No matter what I said, she wasn't having it. But listen to this: we get divorced in, like, '96, and she meets some guy and they go and have four kids! Guess it wasn't that she didn't want kids. She didn't want them with me!"

Abbey doesn't respond.

"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?"