Ordinarily, her love affairs are entered into skittishly, sometimes reluctantly. She doesn’t dive into bed but flutters in like a wayward moth.
—Maggie Shipstead
An airplane crossed the sky, and she imagined its interior-people packed in rows like eggs in a carton, the chemical smell of the toilets, pretzels in foil pouches, cans hiss-popping open, black oval of night...
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