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We groaned in harmony and commiserated: I just wanted to sleep in my own bed that night–she had to make a meeting in Detroit.

He piped in his own frustrations with a vague accent–half-Latino, I guessed.

I explained the last night’s events away: the two of them had merely hit it off.

Every ninety seconds or so, she tossed back a burst of long and shiny hair before letting loose with laughter that was as much lighthearted as it was rehearsed. I often miss these things even as I’m watching them unfold in front of me.

The surfer guy mumbled back his approval, like a hunkier version of Charlie Brown’s unseen teacher. They had to be together–this mismatched pair seemed so comfortable and so into each other–but no, they were clearly traveling alone when we were checking in.

She was very blond and very thin–probably pushing fifty but still sexy in a silver, sleeveless, summer dress that cut off mid-thigh. He was maybe twenty-five: scruffy from a week of not shaving and deeply tanned from the August sun.

I had met her back in the line at Managua when they first announced that our flight was delayed . His black-brown surfer hair was pushed behind his ears and his board shorts hung low, showing an inch-wide band of boxer briefs.

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