Mac boarded a flight in Boston. Bailey caught one out of New York. They changed planes in Chicago and sat next to each other on a flight to the Coast. Both were single, both in their early thirties. Mac asked if Bailey would like the window seat. She said she was fine in the middle, but thanked him for the offer. Mac asked if she was headed home. Bailey said Berkeley, he said Sausalito. Over Illinois Mac told her that he designed computer systems. He exaggerated the importance of his work. Bailey told him that she was a location scout. She dropped the names of movie stars she knew. Over Nebraska, she fell asleep on his shoulder. Over Utah he bought her a glass of wine. They talked politics and discovered that they both loved Bernie Sanders. Over Nevada they compared what they liked about the Bay Area, which was most things. At the carousel in San Francisco he lifted her suitcase and carried it to the curb. She was driving, he was taking a shuttle. They exchanged names and numbers. Then they embraced, kissed, looked into each other’s eyes, and made promises. And never spoke to each other again.