The Flight Got Diverted to Montreal

Denver to Boston became Denver to nowhere when ice closed runways. Airline vouchers, shuttle, shared hotel line.

Seat 14C had been reading my novel—same edition, same cracked spine. His name was Tomas, accent soft, wedding ring on.

"Bad luck," he said at the hotel desk.

"Strange luck."

We ate poutine at midnight like tourists with nowhere else to be. Talked books, marriages, the relief of strangers.

"Room 512," he said at the elevator. "If you want conversation."

Conversation lasted an hour. Then more.

Morning flight rebooked together by chaos. We sat 14B and 14C like nothing happened. Rings on. Lives waiting.

In Boston we hugged at baggage claim, too long.

No numbers exchanged.

I finished the novel months later and cried at the last page for reasons the author did not intend.

Travel affairs are gifts wrapped in expiration dates—you open them knowing the ribbon is already cut.