I block out the image and allow myself one final inroad into Carol. "What does she do?" I say. "For a living?"

"She's a scientist," he says. "A medical researcher at Columbia… She studies cardiac arrhythmia."

"Wow," I say, impressed in the way I think all right-brained people feel about left-brained people-and vice versa.

"Yeah," Leo says. "She's a smart one."

I look at him, waiting for more, but it is clear that he is finished talking about Carol. Instead he crosses his legs and says with what seems to be a purposefully breezy air, "Your turn. Tell me about Andy."

It is a hard question to answer, even when you're not talking to an ex, so I smile and say, "I know you're a reporter-and love those open-ended questions-but can you be more specific? What do you want to know?"

Leo says. "Okay. You want specific… Let's see… Does he like board games?"

I laugh, remembering how Leo would never play board games with me. "Yeah," I say.

"Ahh. Very good for you," Leo says.

I smile, nod and say, "Anything else?"

"Hmm… Does he skip breakfast-or believe that it's the most important meal of the day?"

"The latter."

Leo nods as if taking mental notes. "Does he believe in God?"

"Yeah," I say. "And Jesus, too."

"Very well… And… does he… strike up conversations with people on planes?"

"Occasionally," I say, smiling. "But generally not ex-girlfriends. As far as I know…"

Leo gives me a sheepish glance, but doesn't take the bait. Instead he sighs loudly and then says, "Okay… How about this one?… Does your husband seem genuinely surprised when he unscrews the cap on his Coke and discovers that, lo and behold, holy shit, he's 'Not a Winner This Time'?"

I laugh. "That's so funny!" I say. "Because yes! He expects to win… He's an eternal optimist."

"So," Leo says. "Looks like you found yourself a solid, Checkers-playing, Cheerios-eating, God-fearing, glass-half-full kinda guy."

I burst out laughing, but then worry that I've sold Andy short with Leo's round of Q amp;As-or, worse, somehow belittled who he is. So I end on a decidedly loyal note. "Yeah. Andy is a great guy. A really good person… I'm very lucky."

Leo turns in his seat and looks at me, his smile quickly fading. "He's lucky, too."

"Thank you," I say, feeling myself blush.

"It's true," he says. "Ellen… I don't know how I let you get away…"

I give him a small smile, feeling very bashful as I marvel how such a simple statement can be so healing and thrilling and unsettling, all at once.

And it only gets worse-and better-when Leo reclines his seat and moves his arm onto the rest against mine so that our skin is touching from elbow to wrist. I close my eyes, inhale, and feel a rush of heat and energy that takes my breath away. It is the feeling of wanting something so much that it borders on an actual need, and the power and urgency of this need overwhelms me.

I command myself to move my arm, knowing how imperative it is that I do the right thing. I can hear the scream inside my head-I am a newlywed, and I love my husband! But it does no good. I literally cannot make myself retreat. I just can't. Instead I recline my seat to be flush with his and uncurl my fingers, desperately hoping that he'll find them. He does, tentatively at first, our pinkies barely touching, then overlapping slightly, then a bit more, and more still, as if there is a tide pulling him toward me, over me.

I wonder if he is still watching me through the shadows of the cabin, but I don't open my eyes to find out, hoping the dark will make me feel less culpable, make what I'm doing seem less real. Yet the effect is actually the opposite-it all feels more real, more intense, in the way that you can always focus more on one sense when others are shut off.

Time passes, but neither of us speaks, as Leo's hand completely covers mine. The weight and warmth of it is the same as it was at the diner, the day all of this began, but the gesture feels completely different. This contact is not incidental to a conversation. It is the conversation. It is also an invitation. An invitation I accept with a languid turn of my wrist until my palm is up, facing his, and we are officially holding hands. I tell myself that it is the most innocent of gestures. Grade-school crushes hold hands. Parents and children hold hands. Friends hold hands.

But not like this. Never like this.

I listen to the sound of Leo breathing, his face close to mine, as our fingers interlock, unlace, rearrange. And we fly east that way, eventually drifting off, suspended in the sky, in time, together.

The next parcel of time is hazy as I fall in and out of sleep. I vaguely hear the flight attendant's announcements, but don't awaken for good until we begin our final descent into JFK. Groggily, I look out the window at the lights of the city, then turn to find Leo still sleeping, still holding my hand. His neck is bent, his body curled slightly toward me, his face illuminated by the bright cabin lights. I frantically memorize the dark whiskers across his jaw; his slightly disheveled sideburns; the long, straight bridge of his nose; and his large, domed eyelids.

My stomach churns as it occurs to me that I feel almost exactly as I did the morning after we first made love. I had awakened before sunrise that day, too, and can distinctly recall being frozen next to him, watching him sleep, his bare chest rising and falling, as I thought to myself, What next?

I ask myself the same question now, but come up with a very different answer this time. There is nothing hopeful in this moment. This is not a beginning, but an end. It is almost time to let go of Leo's hand. It is almost time to say good-bye.

A few seconds later, we touch down with a hard jolt of speed. Leo's eyes blink open. He yawns, stretches in his seat, and gives me a slow, disoriented smile. "Hello," he says.

"Good morning," I say softly. My throat is dry and tight, but I can't tell if it's more from thirst or some strain of sadness. I consider reaching down for the water bottle in my purse, but am not quite ready to break our contact-and certainly not for a little hydration.

"Is it morning already?" he says, glancing furtively out the window at the dark runway.

"Almost," I say. "It's six-thirty… We're ahead of schedule."

"Shit," he says, his face reflecting the sinking, conflicted way I feel.

"What?" I say, wanting him to verbalize it for us both, wanting him to tell me that he can't believe that we are back in New York and that it's time to get on with our day. Our separate lives.

He looks down at our clasped hands and says, "You know what."

I nod and follow his gaze to our crisscrossed thumbs. Then I squeeze his hand one final time before letting go.

For the next few minutes, we follow the herd, wearily gathering our belongings, putting on our jackets, and spilling off the plane into the gate area. We are both silent, not communicating at all until we exchange a glance outside the first set of restrooms-a glance that makes it clear that we intend to wait for each other.

And yet, several minutes later, after I've brushed my teeth and hair, I am still surprised when I round the corner and see him leaning against the gray wall, looking so ruggedly handsome that I catch my breath. He gives me a half smile, then very deliberately unwraps a stick of gum. He folds it into his mouth, chews, and extends the package toward me. "Want one?"

"No, thanks," I say.

He stows the package in his jacket pocket, then pushes himself off the wall with the weight of his shoulder. "Ready?" he says.

I nod, and we are off again, headed toward baggage claim.

"Did you check anything?" he asks as we descend the escalator.

"Just my equipment. One bag… How about you?" I ask, knowing that the answer is no-Leo always traveled as lightly as possible.

"Nah," he says. "But… I'll wait with you."

I do not object, and when we reach the claim area, I even find myself hoping that the baggage handlers have taken their sweet time this morning. But no such luck-I spot my black bag right away and have no choice but to lean down to retrieve it.

"I got it," Leo says, gently brushing me aside and hoisting my bag from the belt with a small groan. For one guilty second, I pretend that this is really my life. Leo and I, reporter and photographer, traveling back to the city after yet another celebrity shoot together.

Leo balances his duffel bag over my suitcase and asks, "Did you order a car?"

I shake my head. "No. I'm just taking a cab."

"Same here," Leo says. "Wanna share?"

I say sure, knowing that we are only prolonging the inevitable.

Leo's face lights up in a way that I find both surprising and reassuring. "Okay then," he says briskly. "Let's go."

Outside, the early spring morning is cool and sharp. Soft pink light streaks a cloudless sky. There is no question that it is going to be a beautiful day. We walk along the curb to the cab stand and file into a short, swiftly moving line. A moment later, Leo is loading our luggage into the trunk of a taxi.

"Where to?" our cabbie asks once we've slid into the backseat.

Leo says, "Two stops. The first will be in Astoria-Newton Avenue and Twenty-eighth… and the second stop?…" He looks at me, his dark eyebrows raised, waiting for my address.

"Thirty-seventh and Third," I say, as I picture the inside of my apartment at this very moment-the blinds drawn and everything quiet except for the muffled sounds of morning traffic gearing up; Andy, in a worn T-shirt and pajama bottoms, curled up asleep in our bed. Guilt slashes through my chest, but I tell myself that I will be home soon enough.