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put down his empty glass and looked up at the flight attendant. Her shoulder-length brunette
     hair brushed across the top of her white blouse. She had narrow hips, a slender waist, and very little visible makeup. She
     looked like one of those models from a tennis club brochure. Berry had spoken to her several times since the flight had begun.
     Now that the job of serving the midmorning snack was nearly finished, she seemed to be lingering near his seat. “Not too crowded,”
     Berry said, motioning around the half-empty forward section of the Straton 797.
    “Not here. In the back. I’m glad I pulled first-class duty. The tourist section is full.”
    “High season in Tokyo?”
    “I guess. Maybe there’s a special on electronics factory tours.” She laughed at her own joke. “Are you going on business or
     pleasure?”
    “Both. It’s a pleasure to be away on business.” Disclosures can come out at unusual moments. Yet, for John Berry, that particular
     moment wasn’t an unusual one. The young flight attendant was everything that Jennifer Berry was not. Even better, she seemed
     to be none of the things that Jennifer Berry had become. “Sharon?” He pointed to the flight attendant’s name tag.
    “Yes, Sharon Crandall. From San Francisco.”
    “John Berry. From New York. I’m going to see Kabushi Steel in Tokyo. Then a metal-fabricating company in Nagasaki. No electronics
     factories. I go twice a year. The boss sends me because I’m the tallest. The Japanese like to emphasize their differences
     with the West. Short salespeople make them nervous.”
    “Really?” She looked at him quizzically. She grinned. “No one ever told me that before. Are you kidding?”
    “Sure.” He hesitated. His throat was dry. Just the thought of asking this young woman to sit with him was mildly unnerving.
     Yet all he wanted was someone to talk to. To pass the time. To pretend for a few relaxing moments that the situation in New
     York didn’t exist.
    Jennifer Berry’s tentacles reached even this far. Her presence stretched across a continent and over an ocean. The image of
     his difficult and complaining wife lay over John Berry’s thoughts. Their two teenaged children—a son and a daughter— were
     on his mind, too. They had grown further from him every year. The family tie had become mainly their shared name. Shared living
     space and shared documents. Legalities.
    The rest of what was termed these days their lifestyle was, to Berry, a cruel joke. An outrageously expensive house in Oyster
     Bay that he had always disliked. The pretentious country club. The phony bridge group. Hollow friendships. Neighborhood gossip.
     The cocktails, without which all of Oyster Bay, along with the neighboring suburbs, would have committed mass suicide long
     ago. The futility. The silliness. The boredom. What had happened to the things he cared about? He could hardly remember the
     good times anymore. The all-night talks with Jennifer, and their lovemaking, before it became just another obligation. Those
     camping trips with the kids. The long Sunday breakfasts. The backyard baseball games. It seemed like another life. It seemed
     like a lifetime ago.
    John Berry found himself dwelling on the past more and more. Living in the past. A 1960s song on the radio made him yearn
     for Dayton, Ohio, his hometown. An old movie or serial on television brought on a nostalgia so acute that his heart ached.
    He looked up at the young woman standing over him. “How about having a drink with me? Never mind. I know . . . you’re on duty.
     Then how about a Coke?” Berry was speaking quickly. “I’ll tell you about Japanese businessmen. Japanese customs. Very educational.
     Wonderful information. Great stuff to know if you ever want to become an international corporation.”
    “Sure,” she said. “Love to hear it. Just give me a few minutes to finish up. A few more trays. Ten minutes.” Sharon Crandall
     gathered Berry’s tray and half a