“I just need something to calm my nerves and survive the day,” the flight attendant pleads. “Make it a shot, please. Quick and painless.”

“What happened to you, love?” Mark asks her. “You’ve got a dark aura today.”

They seem to know each other well.

“The whole of Miami Airport almost went into shutdown today. An idiot started a fire, but the firemen caught it before it spread and everything was solved quickly. Otherwise, I would’ve been stuck in that swamp for the entire weekend.”

“Oh, come on, darling. Miami’s hardly a swamp. What’s really up with you?”

“Nothing. Is my drink ready?”

“Give me a sec.” Mark starts fumbling with various bottles and a shaker. Who knew you could put so much work into a shot? “Aren’t you supposed to go home, honey?”

“Too depressing. I might drink myself to death if I go home now. At least here you can keep tabs on me.”

“Will do, but for now… here’s your drink. A pink starburst shot for the nerves.”

I’m kind of jealous. My Sambuca, albeit with coffee beans, looks a little beginner problems-of-the-heart-at-7-a.m.-drinker next to the pink starburst. At least, I’m assuming the flight attendant is going through a heartbreak. Nothing else could drive a seemingly non-AA woman to drinking so early in the morning. I should know.

Anyway, I don’t have much time to admire the pretty pink starburst. As soon as Mark puts the glass on the bar, she grabs it and drains it in a single swig.

“Better?” he asks.

“A little bit.”

The vodka did add some color to her previously ghastly cheeks.

“Is this dark mood about your professor?” Mark prompts.

The word professor has barely left his lips before the flight attendant starts sobbing her heart out. She’s hiccupping one word for every two or three sighs.

“Never… if… mine… engaged all along… wedding… today… she blonde…”

Mark looks at her, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. “You may have to repeat that, sweetheart.”

I should be offended that my own wedding troubles have taken a back seat in the conversation, but this girl seems to be doing a lot worse. Plus, I could use a break from my ticket staring.

“Tissue,” she pleads.

Mark offers her a paper napkin, and she blows her nose loudly. After a few more sobs, she seems calm enough to speak.

“William,” she says, spitting the name in a way that tells me she hates and loves the guy at the same time. “He’s been engaged all this time. Never had the guts to tell me until he was practically at the altar. Too bad men don’t wear engagement rings. We should shackle a band on their fingers—an irremovable one—the moment they propose. At least that way they couldn’t walk the world free to string along perfectly innocent, stupidly over-trusting naïve girls like me.”