. . . I met Anya on a long train ride, Chicago to Los Angeles. The first night we bonded over microwaved cheeseburgers in the dining car and spent the rest of the trip together, charting life courses and stealing quick cigarette breaks out the window.
“You know, I’m actually grateful that you’re married.†I told her.
She smiled. “Yeah? Why’s that?â€
“We still got 47 more hours of travel time, not counting delays, and that’d be plenty of time for me to get hung up on you. But it’s easier not to if you’re off-limits.â€
“But it’s not out of the question, is it?†She said, knowingly.
“It never is.â€
more. . ..
