My Husband's Sweethearts Read Free

of myself, and I feel like I am that other woman.
As misappropriated as it seems, this life is mine.

Chapter Two
Happy Strangers Can Bring
Out the Worst in Anyone
    When I step onto the plane, I wave the
greeting flight attendant toward me.
She's wearing extremely red lipstick so
high gloss that she looks fishy—especially up close. "I'm
going to need a gin and tonic, pretty much immediately,"
I whisper. "I'm right here, four-A."
    She smiles, gives me a wink.
    I've already decided to drink my way through the
flight even before I look up and see the woman I'm to sit
next to. She's my mother's age, giddy, freshly sunburned,
overly smiley. I try not to make eye contact.
    I used to be a nice person, I swear, I was. I used to say Excuse me and No, you first. I used to smile at strangers. I
used to banter with overzealous seatmates. But not now.
No, thank you. I'm not interested in the joy of others. I
take offense at it. When I look at this woman, it crosses
my mind to fake being foreign. I could muster a really
sweet, "No English!" But this woman strikes me as the
type to bully through a cultural difference like that—
to want to play charades and draw pictures—to really
connect. She looks like a combination of overly cheery
and prudish. Plus, I've already outed myself as American
(a desperate American) to the flight attendant, and since
she has the alcohol, I want to protect that relationship.
    As I'm wrestling my borderline oversized luggage into
the overhead, the woman blurts, "It's my first time!"
    I'm not sure how to take this. It all sounds way too
personal. "Excuse me?" I say, pretending I didn't hear her
clearly, and hoping that a little communication speed
bump will give her time to change her mind about revealing
things to strangers on planes.
    She shouts—maybe thinking I'm a little deaf, "My first
time! In business class!"
    "Congratulations," I say, not sure if this is the appropriate
response. What is? Bully for you? I stand in the
aisle, waiting for her to get up. But it seems she doesn't
want to relinquish her seat, not for a second—as if she's
afraid someone might horn in on her privilege. I have to
negotiate around her to get the window seat. I decide to
go by her butt-in-face—maybe a little passive aggression
is what's needed.
    It doesn't register. She says, "My son got me this
business-class seat. 'Who needs a business-class to fly
from New York to Philly?' I say to him. But he doesn't listen.
He's a hotshot like that."
    I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to say, "Oh and what
does he do?" But I let my cue die. I rise up in my seat to
see if the flight attendant noted the distress in my voice
and is working on the drink order. I don't see her now and
this jangles me. I look out the window at the ground crew.
I'm jealous of their headphones filled with engine drone.
    The woman is staring at me. I can feel it, and I also
happen to know, immediately, that she's the kind of woman
my mother disapproves of—the kind who doesn't wear
makeup or dye her hair or go to the gym. My mother would
call her a "quitter," assuming that the woman once did all
of these things, which may or may not be true. But my
mother assumes that the quitters have given up on the fight.
"What fight?" I've asked in the past. "The fight against
looking your age." My mother is always fully dressed, often
in a coordinated velour sweat suit—I call it the formal wear
of sweat suits—and coifed, and overly made-up. She seems
to wear so much makeup these days that she's no longer
really trying to look more attractive, she's just hoping to
disorient people while she safely hides behind it. I don't
know if this is a fight that I want to be a part of, frankly. I
almost feel tender toward the woman next to me, because
she doesn't care what people think of her so very much. She
hasn't quit the fight as much as she has, maybe, risen above
it. But my tenderness doesn't last long.
    She says, "Are