It takes quite a few kicks and jabs before it’s under.

“There,” she says, exhaling and sitting back.

She looks to be about my age. She has dark curly hair, brown eyes, and tons of freckles. She also has very straight white teeth. I always notice teeth.

For the first hour of the flight we don’t speak, but then during the beverage service somehow the handoff of the plastic cup between flight attendant and the woman to my right doesn’t go well, and the diet Sprite spills on me. The flight attendant hands over napkins and pours another drink while my seatmate apologizes profusely and dabs at my tray and leg. I tell her I’m fine, but she keeps dabbing and apologizing and in the end, we start talking, sharing about where we are each going and why.

Her name is Diana and she’s a florist, heading back to Napa after a weekend home in Phoenix to see her mom for a belated Mother’s Day visit. “I couldn’t make it for Mother’s Day,” she says. “Way too much work. I’d been warned that it’s one of the busiest weekends of the year but wasn’t prepared.”

It turns out she’s still in her first year owning her own business, taking over the small florist shop in downtown Napa last fall. She does everything, but specializes in weddings and special events.

“How did you decide to become a florist?” I ask. “Did you study it in school?”

“Nope. I always thought I was going to go into medicine and then during college decided dentistry would be a good fit. I’d even taken the DAT and had applied to dental schools—got into two, too—but at the last moment, I couldn’t do it. I was sick of school and couldn’t imagine being stuck inside all day.”

I drain my water and look at her. “I’m a dentist.”

“Do you like it?”

I nod. “I think I’m good at it.”

“That’s so cool. Where did you go to dental school?”

“University of Washington.”

Her eyes light. “I went there as an undergrad. Go Huskies!”

“What did you study?”

“Psych.” She laughs. “And boy it comes in handy when working with brides, moms, and wedding planners. People really do go crazy when it comes to planning a wedding.” She glances at my left hand, checking for rings. “Are you married?”

I stopped wearing Andrew’s ring on the one year anniversary of his death. Every now and then I put it on, but it doesn’t feel right anymore. “No. You?”

“Men are too much work.” Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “But I could change my mind if I met the right one.”

We end up talking the rest of the flight to Oakland, and as the plane touches down and taxis to the gate, Diana struggles to get her bag out from beneath the seat and then riffles through it for her wallet. She hands me her card just as we reach the gate. Diana Martin. A Napa Bouquet.

“Wait,” she says, taking it back and scribbling her cell number across the top. “That way you can call me direct.”

I pocket her card and give Diana mine.