A young family sat in front of me on the plane.

The dad sat across the aisle from his wife and two small children.  She was frustrated because they had selected preferred seating, but they missed the call for those with preferred seating, so they are in the back of the plane, frankly lucky to be seated together at all.

I watch the dad interact with his daughter.  He makes faces at her holds his arms out to her.  Claps with her.  I watch him with his son.  He plays rock-paper-scissors and corrects his son when he cheats by pounding his fist a second after dad so he can win.

The dad is wearing a white tee shirt.  Pink chino shorts.  (I’m diggin’ the shorts, dude.)  Product in his dark blond hair.  Tan.  Very handsome.  He doesn’t seem to match his wife; she’s not as pretty as he is, but maybe she was at one time.  Maybe motherhood has changed the way she looks.  It does that to the best of us.  And she’s only barely out of maternity clothes.  She’s in the most exhausting part.

Robb would have played rock-paper-scissors.  He would have made faces.  He would have flirted and danced with his little girl. He would have loved having a girl.

But he would never, ever have worn the pink shorts.

 

p.s. Why is there an ash tray in the bathroom on airplanes? Oh my great day, I mean, they tell us repeatedly in their pre-flight spiel that smoking in flight is a federal violation, so why is the bathroom equipped to enable federal violations worth imprisonment?

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