Stella considered herself an incurable romantic, albeit a secret one. Her wide circle of acquaintances and few close friends were equally ignorant of her inner yearnings and wild flights of fancy.
This was deliberate. “Webster’s second definition of romantic,” Stella would often say, “is imaginary.”
Yet every time she boarded an airplane, her eye would rove the faces of the seated passengers, looking for the man at once new and familiar, awaiting that bee-stung feeling in her chest.
That she was invariably disappointed never affected her longing, never dampened the ardor that glowed deep inside her like a distant sun.