1

BROWN

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What does it say about your father if his last will and testament is read in a vault of his own investment fund?

Treasury hall.

It’s a vault, call it what it is. The room has no windows.

And it’s not even any regular investment fund, but the kind of Swiss institution that’s mostly referred to as a financial advisory due to its high level of investment secrecy.

I let the heavy door go behind me, for the first time not caring if someone’s behind me or not. I know it’s unusually rude of me, but my hands are shaking, my entire body railing on the inside.

I take two steps at a time until I reach the lobby.

My blood is boiling just thinking about the fact that my father might’ve thought I wanted all this to be mine one day. I’ve always held up a very clear barrier between his reality and mine.

I pull another unnecessarily heavy oakwood door open and finally take a deep breath.

It’s started raining heavily outside while I was listening to the team of my father’s lawyers reading the fifty something pages of his wealth distribution.

Some conditions the old man’s stipulated, he’s obviously built an entire empire of secrets.

Even left me as the lone benefactor of a mysterious townhouse in New York City nobody in my family had even heard of before.

What is this?

One of his affair adobes abroad?

Deep breath.

Just breathe.

My head is starting to spin, and I look down.

A heavy raindrop lands on my left shoe, slowly sliding over the smooth surface. It comes to a sudden halt right before the rubber sole meets the pavement, lingering unwittingly. Then it blends with the rest of the street water like it was never even there, leaving my custom-made Italian leather in its previously pristine condition.

I take out my car keys, but the new townhouse key that I attached earlier still looks like such an oversized addition that it instantly weighs down my entire keychain.

Everything feels wrong.

My entire life doesn’t seem to fit me suddenly.

Or else, I don’t fit into my own life anymore.

Why do I take it so personally?

So what if on the last day of his life my father invited me for a hike up to our usual spot, all the way to the Pilatus peak. The best view in Switzerland, if you know how to squint right, he used to joke. It’s supposed to be the utmost central location of the entire country; makes you feel like a king atop. And feeling like you own everything around you was certainly my father’s forte.

This time around, Bart Senior swung his index finger in the air. “See, everything that matters in life, son? You can see it clearly when you climb up here.”

“No Davos?” I laughed before I could stop myself.

“Davos doesn’t matter.” He shrugged. “Power is a dead engine without the money to oil it for speed, son.”

I wanted to point out that, technically speaking, his metaphor doesn’t work without the gasoline, but I remained silent.

We took the familiar twisty footpath all the way up, not caring that it took us the best of three hours, with me sweating profusely, and the old man barely managing his already unsteady heart rate. But he’d insisted, and you don’t argue with a seventy-two-year-old when it comes to his own mountain climbing abilities.

He seemed unusually chatty, telling me about some time he’d gone sailing with one of his buddies named Bobby. I’d never heard of the man before, I’m still slightly unsure if perhaps it was a hallucinated character – something I tend to experience a lot, listening to my parents mention their youth, which somehow never fits anything I can imagine.

I asked him where and how he knew this Bobby from, just to be sure, but my father kept talking speedily, like he was losing time and needed to finish the story. Apparently, they’d rented a boat but had forgotten the instructions manual ashore, so all they had were each other’s wits and a sticker with the emergency directions in pictures to guide them back to the port.

“But you know what, you know what, son?” he said with sudden pensiveness in his eyes. We were sitting on the side of a grassy dirt road, taking a water break. “In the end, it’s all you’ve got.” His eyes glued to a distant point, he added in an almost slow motion. “Your own wits and each other is all you’ve got.”

I felt like there was more to that story. Or more to this Bobby character.

Or there was more in him altogether.

We’d never been close, but that last hike felt like he maybe wanted to finally…something. 

Did he know? Did he feel something coming?

But then, nothing.

He got quiet, and, other than a few short map readings, we didn’t exchange more than our usual small talk about the stock market and weather.

He died less than ten hours after we reached that peak.

In his bed.

All alone.

In his ten-bedroom penthouse overlooking Zurich’s Old Town, which he was the sole resident of, as far as I know.

My mother is still managing their eighteen-acre estate in Geneva. When you’ve spent your entire life building wealth, you don’t split and separate your assets. You consolidate and compound, even if the emotional algorithms work against you. Something like a divorce would simply be too unfeasible mathematically.

I don’t care, I tell myself.

I shouldn’t care.

It’s his life. Was his life, his choice.

Everything’s changed now.

I am still alive, and I will live like a new man.

And nothing about this billion-franc mausoleum of profiteering concepts feels worthy of my time.

I suddenly have an idea. Either complete insanity, or sheer genius.

I recall receiving a random email about some investment consultant job in New York for six months, which isn’t anything unusual in itself. I get similar job offers from time to time, seeing that I’m good at generating money out of thin air and known to work for myself.

This might serve as the exact getaway plan I need right now.

It’s called running away, and you know it.

I step further out into the heavy rain, an unwelcome load of warm summer downpour instantly crashing against my face, and raise my hand to hail an approaching taxi. I jump in and instruct the guy to take me to the airport, making a momentary decision to postpone all these big decisions. I still have time to accept or decline my father’s legacy. So, I can deal with all of it when…well, when I figure out how to deal with it.

It’s not cowardly to need time before making a potentially life changing decision.

The heavy midday traffic across Zurich provides me with ample time to respond to the email, accepting the position, and send a text to my sister, Bea, asking her to inform everyone about my new plan. She might not be on board. But it’s still better than texting my mother.

Plus, Bea’s recent stunt of choosing to wear a white suit to our father’s funeral wasn’t the best idea either. So, I’m hoping she’ll outshine me in her usual shockwave talent, one way or another.

When I’m done, I go online and buy myself a one-way ticket to JFK. No private airplanes for now. This will be a new adventure for…

Bart Brown Junior?

Bart. Bart Brown.

No, way too 007.

Just Brown.

Americans love last names and nicknames. I will be exploring my American roots, after all. Plus, I happen to have my American passport with me due to the testament reading. I figured it was the respectable choice to bring that instead of my Swiss one, seeing that my father was an American citizen.

Deep breath.

It will all work itself out.

I just need to give it some time.

I put my phone back inside my jacket pocket when my fingers grasp sharp lines of something unfamiliar. I tug on the soft velvety object.

It’s a small red box.

“Your father specifically instructed me to give you this when we were alone.” His lawyer of the past twenty years, Mr. Berge, whispered in my ear right after I arrived for the testament reading.

I didn’t think much of it, nor was there any time at that moment, so I simply slid it inside my left pocket to burn a hole for later.

It’s rather small but bigger than a ring box. Probably another secret family heirloom Bea or my adopted brother, Chris, are not supposed to know about. The bright red velvet cover and even the golden rim around it definitely looks suspiciously luxury antique like.

I don’t want to know, I tell myself.

I’ve heard enough for one day.

I already feel like my father’s assigned me to deal with his secret double life in New York and our family’s future here in Switzerland.

I take another deep breath and let my head fall back into this cabbie’s less-than-comfy back seat, my arms resting by my sides for the first time today. My face seems slightly damp from the fifteen steps I took in that downpour. And my hair’s grown beyond my usual length, seeing I haven’t had a cut since the old man’s…

“Arrivals or departures?” the cabbie asks in English, obviously deciding I’m a tourist.

“Departures, please.” I answer, not skipping a beat. “Right here is good. Thank you.” I hand him a hundred francs banknote and get out.

I walk through the sliding doors and duck into the first coffee shop I can spot for a much-needed caffeine supply. I order a triple shot of espresso, swipe my card, and step aside to check my phone. There’s an unread message from Bea.

Silence from Chris and my mother? Oh well…

I swipe off Bea’s message for later.

There’s also an email with a copy of my father’s testament, and the mysterious townhouse ownership deed.

I can feel the dread growing just thinking about it.

What am I going to find there? Why has nobody so much as heard the mention of it?

The air around me suddenly becomes too heavy, and I fear an actual panic attack.

I can’t read all this again.

I force myself to straighten up, when my eyes land on her…

She’s so feminine and sexy, and somehow despite wearing a dark blue dress that’s hugging her curves in all the right places, also the one person that brightens up this room. It must be her wavy brown hair that keeps catching small sparks of light from the ceiling lamps.

She turns her head, and our eyes meet for a nano second when the barista says something that makes her mouth curl upwards in the warmest smile I’ve seen in a really long time. She looks so…so uninhibited…so genuine.

I know I’m staring at her.

I can’t help staring at her.

It doesn’t make any sense.

This relative stranger, this blue-eyed woman – her eyes are almost the same color as her dress – she’s suddenly making me think of fresh snow!

The thought in itself works like a cooling aid that I need to calm down right now.

She pays and starts walking in my direction with a very deliberate notion, making me suddenly feel completely unprepared and out of place. Thankfully, the other barista places a cup with a bright BROWN scribbled on it right in front of me. So, I just snatch that, mumble something inarticulate, and head for the door.

She’s not meant to be.

I can’t help wondering, though, what those blue eyes might look like in candle light while sitting on my lap.

I also can’t help wondering where she’s headed, and maybe I’ve made a mistake accepting this position so fast. I could’ve followed her to forever neverland.

I need to wake up!

I take a sip of my coffee. 

Yuck!

This isn’t what I ordered at all.

How hard is it to make a simple coffee order?

I almost want to go back and request a new drink, but my gate’s already opened, so I just keep walking. And strangely, for the last fifty feet or so, I experience this strange sensation like something grand is about to happen. Some sort of gumption, almost like I’ve never been on a commercial flight before. That unfeigned anticipation that only a kid can experience, knowing he’s about to embark on a whole new adventure.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s just New York. I’ve been there a bunch of times.

And yet there’s a house with my name on it.

A home.

Someone’s home.

My father’s?

Mine?

I inhale deeply, trying not to spit back whatever this crazy overly sugary drink is, and let the stewardess show me to my seat.

The pilot’s greeting comes in German, and then in English. And my heart picks up the pace.

A stewardess appears – her name tag reads Francesca – and offers me a glass of champagne, which I gladly accept, immediately taking a grateful gulp.

I glance out the window, trying to calm myself.

My heart rate’s finally back to its usually dependable beat.

I fall back into the cushy seat, letting my head rest against the pillow behind me, forcing my attention to the safety instructions when my eyes accidentally land on…a familiar pair of dark blue eyes passing by my seat?

I try to compose myself.

She’s here?

On my flight?

My eyes literally do a double take when the same wavy brown hair from the coffee shop disappears behind a seat only three rows behind mine in the same first class.

Deep breath.

She arranges herself and fastens her seatbelt, looking up, when our eyes meet again.

I’m staring again.

But I can’t help it. I can feel the same cool breeze washing over my body.

I realize I must have gone mad as a result of all the stress that’s accompanied the testament reading and pressure, and the rain storm.

Plus, the AC has been turned up high. 

That’s all.

And yet, what are the odds?

“Champagne, Sir?” The same Francesca stewardess has appeared by my side once more with a tray of freshly filled glasses.

“Sure…” I hastily nod at her, while I hand her my not-so-empty coffee cup.

Five big bold letters in black marker are now staring at me from Francesca’s trash can.

BROWN

Could it really be?

No way.

I can feel myself grinning like an idiot.

Or winner!

I share something precious with the gorgeous blue eyes – we obviously have the same last name, seeing the previous mix-up.

 

​

2
CELESTE

​

It was raining heavily when I got out of bed this morning. It was still a total downpour when I stepped out of my Airbnb, and now there are actual puddles on the ground.

This can’t be a good sign on the morning of your return home.

But maybe it’s like with weddings – rain is actually considered a good luck omen.

I tip my taxi driver and carefully step out of the car. Hopping over two puddles, I’m finally safely inside the Zurich airport.

It feels almost odd going home now. I’ve overspent my holidays here for so long that this city has started to feel like my new home.

I check my watch, and, seeing that my flight is in forty minutes, I figure I’ll have time to duck into a coffee shop on the way to my gate. There’s nothing like a jolt of caffeinated sugar to wake yourself up on a day like this.

And I will need to wake up.

Figuratively and literally.

I have only one day left to figure out where I stand.

OK, that’s not true.

I know where I stand. I love Wes, and I married him for a reason, and that reason wasn’t a future prospect of a divorce. But surely, it should mean something grand if your wife lags on her business trip in Europe just to let you finish your dream manuscript.

Knowing him, Wes will probably throw me some sort of a welcome home surprise party.

Then why am I not feeling excited?

Why am I feeling more and more tired spotting the departures signs?

Not sleeping through the night might have something to do with it. But that’s just pre-flight jitters. Everyone has them the night before flying.

I simply need coffee.

And a miracle.

I pull my carry-on to the first escalator I can find, grateful I’ve already checked in and didn’t have any more luggage to drag around with me, and will myself to feel upbeat seeing an open coffee shop.

It’s rather empty with only a few patrons sitting at the tiny round tables. So, I walk up to the lone barista, a silver haired hipster with three earrings in his left ear, who looks so energized he’s probably already tried every drink on their menu.

He starts saying something in German, carefully examining my puzzled expression. Then stops, smiles, and kindly offers, “American?”

“Canadian, actually.” I nod. Although, purely technically.

“Ah, the land with even more snow in winter.” He taps something on his Micros. “What will it be today?”

“Um…” I quickly study the board behind him. I know how much they can’t stand when you linger too long. But this place is hardly busy today, so he doesn’t seem too jumpy, even on his caffeine high. “I want something strong but not just simple coffee. Do you have any of those seasonal specials maybe?”

He smiles and points to a poster on his right.

I glance at the delicious sounding lattes and cappuccinos, until I see a hot…man standing right next to the poster.

I know I should be focusing on the list of hot chocolates, and not make this guy wait for my order, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen a man that looks like that.

Tall and well-built. With broad shoulders that make you want him to hug you, wrap those arms around you, and make you feel feminine in them. He has an adorable black suit on, that’s certainly tailored to redefine the concept of sleek and sexy.

Mr. Sexy must be on a business trip, given his sharp’n’serious expression. I wonder where a man like that is flying off to. And if maybe I could prolong my own trip to homeland insecurity to follow him.

“Khmm…so?” the barista yanks me back to my present location.

I can’t help myself. My eyes are trying to read the names of the frozen coco drinks or chocatino, or some such thing, but this man…Mr. Sexy looks so…so focused.

Set to win.

He’s looking down at his phone. Then his eyes linger somewhere in the middle distance, he has that look on his face. Power and status. The look that says the world abides to him and not the other way around.

“I’ll take the hot choc…” I finally mutter after the barista feigns coughing the second time.

“The whipped dark special?”

I nod, willing myself to look at my own bag to find my wallet. Mr. Sexy has adorable dark brown hair that suddenly makes me want to reach out and slip my hands in it.

Focus woman, for crying out loud!

“What size?” The barista asks nonchalantly.

“Oh, large…” my eyes have once again betrayed me, finding Mr. Sexy’s whereabouts. For a second, he looks up, and our eyes meet, and I experience this strange bolt. Like maybe I know him from somewhere?

“What did espresso say to the hot chocolate?” the silver haired barista suddenly asks me.

“What?” I spin around towards him for reassurance that I’ve heard him right, but he winks at me, nodding towards Mr. Sexy.

“I don’t know. What?” I ask, suppressing an emerging grin.

He swipes my card and offers me the receipt, “Where have you B-E-A-N all my life?”

I haven’t laughed in such a long time, like really laughed from the depths of my belly, that it feels good to relax and giggle.

Wes would definitely say that his joke was generic.

He would also remind me that coffee shops sell overpriced hot chocolate under even more generic marketing tags.

Good thing Wes isn’t here right now.

Especially because I just caught Mr. Sexy looking in my direction.

I wonder if there’s a joke that would make a man of that stance laugh like this.

Probably some money jargon.

Knock, knock!

Who’s there?

Cash.

Cash who?

Cash-ew.

You’re nuts, Celeste!

I realize I’m not the only one staring at him. Virtually all other women seated in this place or walking by keep taking lingering looks. OK, so maybe he’s broody, but he’s certainly lucked out in the looks department. That ruffled dark brown hair simply screams after sex look.

I can’t help myself. It’s been so long I can’t even remember what Wes looks like naked. Of course, my instinct is to picture this guy all topless and filled with desire, and coming closer towards…he’s actually coming closer?

Oh, my God. Is he going to say something?

Did he hear that cheesy coffee joke? Surely, he can’t mind-read my even cheesier knock-knock attempt.

“Excuse me, my coffee.” He mutters matter-of-factly and brushes past me to grab his drink.

And he’s gone. Virtually a second later.

OK, not gone. I can still admire his backside.

Get a grip, Celeste.

You’re going home to your husband! Wes Brown, remember?

I let out a long breath I wasn’t aware I was holding and turn to grab my own cup.

Large black letters BROWN neatly scribbled across the top part.

Ha! The color that seems to sum up my life rather inclusively.

“Thank you.” I smile at the barista, his expression somewhat bemused, and head out.

I locate the screen with all the departures and find my gate number.

It’s already open for boarding, so I pick up my pace, taking a cautious sip not to burn my mouth.

Wait…that’s…

It’s bitter and way too strong. What is this? Another joke? It’s like a punch in a cup that makes you instantly grimace.

I take a double look at the cup. But it says my name on it. The barista probably looked at my credit card and simply wrote down my last name.

I don’t understand.

Or do I?

Can it really be…?

Mr. Sexy grabbed his drink almost at the same time…

It’s kind of a turn on to have his drink in my hands.

So close to my mouth.

It’s not cheating if he’s never touched it, right?

OK, I really need to get a grip.

The strong liquid actually has a very welcome after taste.

And it’s called a wake-up call.

“Hello, Madam. Your boarding pass, please!”

I hand the gate lady my ticket and boarding pass. She beeps them, glances at my passport, and waves me to go through.

The plane is warm, and somehow homier and redder than I’d expected. I love flying first class. One of the few things I actually love about working for a hedge fund – it always comes with luxury perks like these cushy seats.

I locate my seat number right above the fifth row and exactly three seats away from none other than Mr. Sexy.

I can feel my cheeks flushing.

I’m a scientist, a simple anatomic process of blushing in Homo Sapiens is no mystery to me. I know what four shots of extra strong caffeine can do to one’s bloodstream, especially if consumed in a speedy manner.

The pink on my cheeks is all caffeine and zero Mr. Sexy.

I let the stewardess place my carry-on above my head and slouch into my seat, very much aware of his staring at me.

Oh God, this won’t be easy.

I need some distraction.

I will myself to examine the wings of this Boeing, the fine lines that make up the pattern of the carpeting in my aisle, the oversized tray that’s tucked into my seat, the narrow opening between the seats all the way ahead…his turned face looking right at me.

He nods, pure charm and confidence radiating from every pore on his face.

My own face reaches Saharan heat.

There’s sudden commotion all the way where he’s sitting. A stewardess is now involved. They’re talking, examining Mr. Sexy’s boarding pass, glancing my way from time to time. He smiles, and then she blushes and smiles, too. I realize they’re speaking in Italian. Even though the previously eloquent sentence he gave me in the coffee shop suggested a pure American accent. And then, the tightly skirted stewardess struts away, her gait somehow elevated, like she’s a woman on a mission.

I finally sit back, exhaling the breath I wasn’t aware I’d held all this time.

He turns and waves at me in a rather friendly manner.

Struck by an undeniable need to check if his high school buddy might be sitting right behind me, which is impossible, seeing he would need to be seated directly on the previously examined wing of this Boeing, I do what every self-respecting woman would do – I look down at the safety instructions and ignore him.

What does he think? We shared a coffee-waiting-time, so we’re buddies now?

OK, maybe we share our last names as well.

But this doesn’t mean…

He keeps looking at me.

Why does he keep looking at me?

Not like he could want his drink back.

I don’t look. I don’t have to. I can feel the heat from his body radiating its liquid state with all the force it has across our entire aisle.

“Excuse me, Madam?”

My eyes shoot up. It’s the same Italian stewardess, who’s now right by my side.

“Mrs. Brown?”

“Ehm…yes.” I barely mumble.

“I’m so sorry for the mix-up. I would like to apologize on behalf of our aircraft.” She smiles at me widely, like she’s here to hand me a large trophy. At this point, I start regretting the four espressos of the wrong BROWN drink. My head is beginning to spin, corners of my vision taking in both her wide grin right before me, and also the fact that Mr. Sexy is getting up from his feet. “Would you please follow me, Madam.” She adds.

Dazed. And stunned. Like a deer caught in headlights on 401 to Montreal, I follow her to a place somewhere forward in the middle distance.

She stops abruptly and spins around, her long ponytail, which I hadn’t even realized existed until now, slightly brushing against my face.

“Congratulations on your anniversary, Mrs. Brown.” She smiles again and points to a seat in front of me. “We’d like to offer you a new seat for your journey back home.” She winks at someone behind me – big guess who it might be – and struts her tight skirt away.

It’s so corny.

Or not.

I mean I could simply turn around, say no-thank-you and head back to my old seat.

But he’s standing right there behind me, waiting for me to accept his offer to sit next to him. And it’s a long flight. Filled with plenty of thoughts I’d rather postpone or throw out altogether.

Plus, this somehow strangely feels like winning a lottery.

Thousands of hours of bullying back in high school (Browny left behind again?) and I can’t believe my last name’s finally paid off – it’s worked to get the attention of someone like him.

Not the right Mr. Brown, but what’s the harm in simply sharing a flight together?

Where’s your adventurous side, Celeste?

Left in Antarctica circa 2018, and you know it. 

Back when I spent three weeks squeezed in between someone who looked like Moses and a guy with six pairs of socks that were all equally filled with holes all across his toes, staring at the mating rituals of Emperor penguins.

I need to fix this.

I need to get it back.

My adventurous side, not the Antarctica job.

I gather my courage and let my body drop.

I wait for the inevitable. I feel like laughing and helplessly bite my lip like a teenage girl. For the first time since I boarded a plane to Zurich from New York more than three weeks ago, I experience something remotely similar to decadence.

He sits down slowly – graciously, like his manners might be assessed by the King of England – and takes a moment to look right into my eyes. A wide and really guilty smile spreads across his face.

My insides threaten to erupt with the electricity of a million starlings swarming the backdrop of a Roman sunset. I can hear the tickling of their wings flapping against the back of my ears.

He opens his mouth to speak, but the tight skirt is back with a neatly wrapped ice bucket, something pop-cork poking its top out.

“Mrs. Brown,” his thick eyebrows slightly jump in hopes I will go along with this situation, “I hope this makes up for our earlier…mix-up.”

“Mix-up?” We somehow enunciate the last word at exactly the same time, subsequently also making both of us laugh out loud in unison.

To call this mix-up circumstantial or accidental would be an understatement. I think neither of us can actually believe it. We both look amused, grinning at each other like idiots, while three uniforms unwrap, uncork and pour our bubbles.

I take a closer look.

This Mr. Brown looks slightly older than me, or at least he has a slightly higher count of the fine lines that circle around his eyes during each smile. And that smile…ah, it could melt icebergs. It radiates a rarely warm feeling.

Once again, I’m overtaken by a notion of having met him before.

But I doubt it’s possible, unless we both unknowingly attended some convention of international Browns in the central hall of Galactic Meridian dreamland.

He’s got thick dark brown hair, all grown out and in desperate need of a haircut, and yet almost unchangeably locked in the post-sex look that makes me want to bite my lower lip a lot more than usual. And dark brown eyes that are nearly hidden under two thick lines of eyebrows. There is something primal and yet tender about him. The way he smiles, while his eyes are obviously assessing me with unmistakable precision, makes him look trustworthy and safe. He’s like a Swiss bank vault, but with a lock of an American charm.

He nods his head in gratitude for the champagne to the same stewardess – Francesca, her name tag reads – and she speeds off.

He’s so doubtlessly a player.

I mean, what kind of a man would pull a stunt like this.

“Your Italian skills are obviously very…” I accept a glass of champagne.

“Impressive, I know. One of the perks of attending a boarding school in a multilingual country. My teacher said it’s the language of lovers. Salute!” He raises his flute.

I spot a dimple on his left cheek.

There’s some sort of addictive air about him that I’ve never experienced before.

I can’t stop examining him.

The plane starts moving, the seatbelt signs blink, but all I can think about is who is this unexpected person sitting next to me?

He’s like a rare perfume that, once you’ve discovered it, you know it’s all you will want to buy. More and more.

We toast, and he leans in, “I’m sorry about before.”

“Yeah well, I think you actually called me Your Coffee back there.” I take a sip of the cold champagne.

He sighs and throws his head back in disbelief. And at that moment, it dawns on me how rare this moment is.

And I don’t mean some destiny or fate thing that we were meant to meet, or something like that. But this genuine thrill I’m feeling right now.

The plane is positioned for the runway.

What would I give to acquire this sensation of anti-gravity that’s making my lips constantly reach upwards. It’s almost as if I can feel a certain lightness at the back of my head that could cure diseases and make the blind see again.

Life should always be like this.

The plane picks up the speed, sending all its engines to a rev up mode.

Life should be flowing and filled with chances that at least occasionally offer free champagne.

Giddy and magical.

Mr. and Mrs. Brown mode.

The engines rev up even more.

I must admit that I am glad he grabbed my hot chocolate by mistake, and that he had the same last name as me that led him to do all this, and that he’s fluent in Italian to talk this stewardess into seating us together.

I’ve been waiting for this kind of Mr. Brown my entire life.

Only, I’m still naively waiting for it from the wrong man.

The plane takes off.

“You’re one to talk,” he suddenly laughs. “I think you should be grateful I took the bullet and saved your life back there. What the hell was in your cup? A double hot chocolate with extra whip cream and three shots of caramel syrup? Were you trying to heart attack yourself?”

“Was it that bad? It was a special. I’ve never had it before.” I can’t stop laughing. Either the caffeine or bubbles, but I feel a lot younger than my twenty-nine years.

God, I’ve forgotten how good it feels to flirt. Five years of marriage and I’ve turned into someone who only talks about logistics, schedules and fertility.

“How’s everything?” Another stewardess comes by, and I realize that we’ve stopped ascending. She looks younger, and less blond and confident than the previous one. “I see you’re having a better time celebrating your anniversary. It’s so beautiful to see a marriage that’s so happy after so many years.” She says lightly and joyously, hitting the wrong nerve unknowingly and so matter-of-factly.

It’s like taking a bullet.

My new seat companion picks up on it as soon as she’s gone.

“Sorry. I told them we were married…” his voice trails off. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah, yeah. No, it’s just…” my voice cracks. The previous heat from my cheeks is now burning somewhere much deeper in my chest. I inhale and exhale. Breathing deeply has become a real lifesaver practice over the last couple of years.

“I’m good.” I say, nodding for the assurance I’m sure my tone lacks.

He’s looking right through me, like I don’t need to say a word more, like he knows exactly what I’m going through.

He’s probably had a bad marriage himself, or a disastrous relationship, at least, that would make him privy of this waiting game.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait forever. Wait for something to happen. Wait for it to get better. Wait for a change. Wait for a new phase. Wait for the end.

“I know people say that, but I actually know exactly what that’s like,” he mutters while simultaneously refilling our glasses.

I gulp down mine like it’s the answer to everything, like getting drunk faster could end the pain faster. He refills my glass without a pause and then says, “Should I order another bottle, or do you prefer to switch to tequila shots now?”

“No, no. This is great. Thank you.” I empty the third glass and start feeling the effect of the bubbles lifting me somewhere higher, where I’m weightless, where there’s no chess pattern on a kitchen floor on the Upper East Side, where the shouting is muted, and cold facial expressions only hazy reflections in the puddles across the street.

The new Mr. Brown starts talking about air travel, but all I can think about is how tender and velvety his voice sounds right next to my ear. We are seated so closely, and it feels like he is audible only to me, like we are engulfed in our own private little world. The effect it has on me while listening is so unexpectedly relaxing, and something resembling safety and belonging.

I check his ring finger.

No ring.

But then again, mine is equally bare as well. I’m waiting for so many things from my Mr. Brown, refusing to acknowledge the obvious – that if they aren’t there after five years in, they are likely not coming at all. A simple missing ring is the least of my concerns.

I rub my forehead and close my eyes for a moment, imagining my life as a runner. One that runs fast and far, but not away, just to feel the wind on my face. Maybe I’m running as far as New York City, maybe even farther all the way across the Atlantic. Maybe I’m running alone, but maybe there’s someone else running beside me. And maybe he is equally Brown. Or maybe we’re both crazy with life, because we realize we are running on the water across the Atlantic, and not the ground anymore. I feel free running with him, and strong, and faster than ever. And he has mature eyes, like they’ve seen the pain the world is carrying on its bird wings. Like he knows the calculations won’t solve the pollution problem across the planet. Like he’s seen death just like I have had to hear about it, again and again. Prepare a new proposal, calculate the budget, let’s get these birds tested again and again, politicians need more proof, we want to get paid, don’t we? His eyes are sincere, and there are tiny yellow sparkles in them. Just a little. Like a shy ray of sun that’s poking its head through a stormy cloud – is the storm over? Can I come out now? Are we there yet?

“Hey there, we’ve landed,” his voice suddenly says right above my face, and I wake up.