From inside her bag, she felt a gentle buzz against her body. It was her mother again, texting her affirmations and wishes for a safe flight. A member of their family flying was a rare enough occurrence that it warranted a ritual, one wherein the flyer told the others how much they loved them, that they’d lived a good life, that they were grateful. It was morbid in some ways, and probably a little woo-woo, but it had become Alex’s preflight security blanket. She wandered over to one of the few open airport bars to properly respond. There was only one other patron, so she took the best seat in the house: the very corner of the bar, overlooking the terminal, with plenty of space to spread out her belongings.

“What can I get you?” The bartender asked, setting down a glass of ice water for her. He was a handsome twenty-something with messy blond hair that looked almost boy band-adjacent. Alex immediately perked up.

“Shirley Temple, please.” As she ordered, she cracked open the spine on her first vacation read, a romance between two childhood friends who reconnect after thirty years and two divorces.

“A Shirley Temple.” He laughed, grabbing a glass. “I like it.”

“Me too.” She smiled. “And actually, could I have extra cherries, please?”

She fished her phone from her bag, sliding open her mother’s string of messages. It was always nice to speak to her when she could take her time and manage her tone, as opposed to the unannounced video calls Elena preferred.

“Extra cherries, coming right up.” The bartender reached under the counter for a jar of surprisingly fancy Amarena cherries. “Are you on the flight to Paris?”

“Yeah, and I’m starting to worry it’s not going to take off at all.” Alex took a long sip of her water, typing back her I love yous. She was an excellent daughter via text.

“It’ll take off. This happens all the time when it’s raining, but you’ll get to Paris. Cheers.”

He set a cocktail napkin down in front of her with a flourish, placing her drink on top of it.

“Cheers.” She smiled, setting down her phone and taking a deep sip through twin black straws. “This is a really good Shirley Temple.”

“Thanks—we order our cherries from Italy.” He walked over to the sink, rinsing off the spoon he’d used to fish them out. “The manager is Italian. He loves them. They kind of taste like almonds, right?”

“They do.”

Alex was good at low-stakes flirting, likely a byproduct of her work in communications. Actual, real-deal relationships terrified her, and she wasn’t overly charming on dates, but in these micro-moments that were at no risk of evolving into something serious, she excelled. Sometimes, she would even make up fantastical backstories for herself, knowing she would never see the person again.

“What are you doing in Paris?” he asked, refilling her water.