The plane trembles somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea, shuddering gently, shaking the tray table, and I lean into you. You take one look at my face and hold out your hand. I close my eyes, comforted by the pressure of your fingers against mine. You pour two glasses of wine, holding up your glass in a toast, and I avert my eyes.
You are not mine to love, but my heart flips-flops anyway, responding to this moment on the plane, the giddy feeling of being next to you, and the hundred moments in Doha where you held a hand out to me, to steady my nerves, pull me up to solid ground amid the faltering process of an international agreement and the devastating disappointment that went with it. I spent two weeks stealing glances at you, laughing in delight when you rolled your eyes and teased me, complaining with arched eyebrows and a perfect French accent that I am impossible.