A Harvard MBA project idea, fifteen years in the making, now valued at 8.7 billion dollars. And at my now interesting age of thirty-eight, it’s sure to be the only baby I’ll ever have. Or need.
Business," I confirm at last. "Acquisition meeting."
"Ah. So you're either buying a casino or selling your soul to one."
"The former—and it’s not a casino. Though some would argue there's little difference."
She laughs, an unguarded and slightly too loud sound that reminds me of my Babushka.
It’d be a pleasant comparison—if my Russian grandmother hadn’t been on my case for months about my "frozen heart" and how I need to "stop being stubborn mule like your svoloch father."
"I'm going for pleasure," she volunteers. "Well, 'pleasure' in the sisterly obligation sense. My baby sister's bachelorette party. Which I was supposed to arrive at three hours ago, but…the subway had other plans."
"The subway?”
“Yes. I—There was a naked man situation.”
“Interesting.”
“What do you mean ‘interesting’?”
"It's not every day someone opens with public nudity as a conversation starter."
"Fair point." She finally puts down the baby wipe, tucking it into her tote bag, hazel eyes lifting. "Anyway, Amelia—that's my sister—is getting married in six weeks or so to the world's sweetest Finance Bro. Like, aggressively sweet. He sends her good morning texts with sunrise emojis.”
"Finance bro," I repeat, thinking of my days at Harvard Business School with my best buddies Christian and Roman. Days I wish I could get back on a week like this one.
I raise my hand, and the flight attendant finds me, depositing our orders—a scotch for me. A glass of red wine for my current aisle partner.
“Let me guess.” I reach for the scotch, taking a slow sip. “This fiancé of hers works in private equity, wears Patagonia vests, talks about market disruption?"
"Close. Venture capital. But yes to the vest. Multiple vests. He has a vest collection." She shakes her head, smiling. "But he makes her happy, so I'm legally required to love him."
Makes her happy.
As if that's the only requirement that matters.
As if love isn't something that can be weaponized by the people who are supposed to care about you most.
When the attendant leaves, the tomato juicer herself turns to me. “She hates me.”
“Who?”
“The flight attendant.” She eyes the wine on her seat tray. “She probably spit in my drink.”
“An over exaggeration, I’m sure. If anyone was going to ‘flavor’ your drink, it would be me.”
“Seriously?”
“You tackled me and bathed me in tomato juice. If I were a lesser man, those would be fighting actions.”
"True." She grins. "Though technically you rescued me from the bathroom Gestapo, so maybe we're even?"
"I wouldn't say even. My shirt cost two thousand dollars."
She chokes on air. "Two thousand—Jesus Christ. For a shirt?"
"Custom tailored. Italian cotton. One hundred and eighty thread count."
