Boeing, Boeing, Gone

A man sitting next to me on a long flight really opened up to me, and I ended up sharing stuff I never tell anyone. He asked for my number, but I never heard from him. How does someone connect with you so amazingly, then walk away from you like you're any other stranger on the plane?

--Seat 13D

Welcome to the One-Flight Stand: Two total strangers, thrown together by airline seat assignment algorithms, sharing their deepest secrets over those little bags of pretzels and blankets that haven't been washed since the Wright brothers took off. With somebody you'll never see again, you can feel safe revealing stuff you'd only tell your closest confidant. And then, because you've treated them like a close confidant, they can start to feel like one. (Never mind that you can't remember if it's "Brad" or "Bruce.") Some seatmates continue their relationship down the jetway, but most have broken up by the time they hit the terminal. As they're getting off the plane, there's that blast of outdoor air -- real life hitting them, along with the realization that there's no graceful way to fit 13D into theirs. Or, maybe they realize they got drunk on anonymity, and feel dirty for exposing way too much of themselves to a stranger. If you can't stand the post-flight chill, wear protection: an eye mask or iPod headphones. If you're willing to risk it, there's always that possibility you'll continue on with some seatmate, maybe even to the point where you find yourself joining him in the TSA line; joining, as in, "You may now cavity-search the bride."