I fell in love, again, on an airplane. Every time I’ve flown I’ve fallen in love. It’s as if the airlines keep an eye out for my name when I buy my ticket, and make sure to place me in proximity to strange but beautiful women. Perhaps they’ve all been plants. Or perhaps the altitude does something to my head. This one’s name was Inga. We were flying to Germany, her for postgraduate study, me for a chocolatier conference in Hanover. She had short, black hair and rich brown skin that gave the impression of being as pliant and warm as heated wax. I showed her the truffles we were selling, small, gold-dusted balls laced with bee pollen and chili powder. She smiled when I told her how much one cost. “But you’re giving me one anyhow?” she said. I nodded. “Because you’re in love with me?” “Once this plane lands I would love, more than anything, to find the chapel—which, they say, is hidden in the Frankfurt airport for just such occasions—and make you my wife.” She took a bite from the truffle and chewed thoughtfully. “It isn’t hidden, Mr.—” I grimaced, and told her my first name. “It isn’t hidden. It in fact only exists when necessary, you can see its entrance open wide in the tarmac before certain lovers, when they’re destined to love once and never again.” “A tragic fate,” I said, toasting the air with another truffle. Inga finished hers, and was quiet.
(From Fiction Volante)





