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Dark eyes, military shaved cut, and a brown leather satchel bag. He had 13B and I was holding lucky ticket number 13A.

Whereas most people would greet a fellow seat mate with a friendly “hello” or better “Would you like to take the aisle?”, this guy gives me the once over and says “You don’t seem like a cuddler.” Stunned, I did what any self-respecting girl would do. I pulled out my iPhone and posted it on facebook.

I should have been offended. At the very least, I should have flirted. But, you see, refer back to point A. Dark eyes. Military cut. Brown messenger bag. This guy could do no wrong. And then he offered to share his USB port with me. In the traveler’s world, he who has power, is god. And he shared his power with me. The lowly turtleneck and leggings wearing non-cuddler.

When the meals came (he’s gluten free), he offered up his banana. While I enjoyed pasta and brownies, he endured rice cake after rice cake. I like to think we bonded over the Nutella packets he snuck on the plane. But the real excitement came when we realized we were both headed to Addis Ababa. What are the odds that two people in Minneapolis would be flying all the way to Ethiopia? I can only name eight other people who were doing that same route. At this point I realized if true love was going to happen, then we had between 15-17 hours to make it so. I was up to the challenge.

He shared his sour patch kids with me. That’s almost like kissing.

He noticed me in the KLM lounge and casually asked if I used Google Voice to text. That’s almost like asking for my number.

On the next flight, he winked at me from his seat a few rows up. Surely there’s a Michael Bolton song about that.

And then he gave the dreaded fist bump. The only thing worst than a fist bump is a side hug. And maybe  Typhoid.

And so it ends.