The kookiest thing that ever happened to me at a crime scene was when a detective gave me his card. Not to talk about the case, but because he wanted writing advice. I took his card and looked at it and thought, my friend is dead in the next room and you want to talk about your novel? I never called him. Now, I’m interested to see what he’d written. But his card is buried in a box somewhere, and I haven’t tried too hard to find it.

I’m writing this on a plane, shipping myself back to CA. A small Japanese man is doing arm exercises next to me, and probably reading this as I type it. So is the guy behind me. Not that there’s much to do on this plane; the movie, “The Lake House,” the epic film that reunited Keanu with Sandra, is skipping. The videotape of the movie has gone bad, and the screen has become a moving canvas of abstract art. K-K-K-Keanu’s face is k-k-k-kind of art-deco-y. My cat is in a bag at my feet, and the rows of seats are so close together that I can’t quite open the computer all the way, so the screen is at an odd angle that gets smaller every time the guy in front of me shifts in his seat or leans it back toward me.

And I’m thinking about this detective from 2003. And the guy I met last night. The only way these connect in my head is that the guy I met last night is a real bona fide novelist, though I – and probably the detective – haven’t read any of his books. Yet. My car will probably find its way to Skylight Books tomorrow to see what they have in stock.

We were at a bar on Chrystie Street, where everyone was smoking, Bloomberg be damned. I looked over and – yes, just like in a movie that is not skipping – the smoke cleared a bit and there he was. And there was that – that sort of internal “huh” that you do when you see something you know in someone else. He was foxy and I was quickly hoping he was straight, single, and over thirty. Which he was, or is, and about three solid minutes into the conversation, I start to think my life is changing. Right now. This is the guy. I mean, The. Guy. Whoosh!

Weird, I know, but then I sort of start to feel, as we are talking about bands and TV and Maker’s Mark, I start to feel like I did when I was with my mother at the opening of a supermarket and they pulled our names out of a barrel and we won a hundred bucks. They announced our names over the loudspeakers and we grabbed each other’s hands and squealed, and then quickly tried to look like this happened every day. I’m talking to this guy and out of nowhere, I feel like I’ve won a sweepstakes prize. And I never thought it would happen to me. And here it is. Happening.

How often does this happen? To me, not so much. I mean, not the full-on sweepstakes whoosh. I also wonder: is this happening to both of us or just to me? Did the smoke really clear? Yes. Yes it did. Did someone start to sing “Life on Mars?” right as we started to talk? Yes. Yes they did (off key). But is it just the Maker’s leaving its Mark? If it is, will I ever find the right person? Or a person. That is right enough. A person that feels like they’re winning the sweepstakes when they look at me, as much as I feel like a grand prize winner when I’m with them?

I mean, whatever. Really. I can imagine a solo life and it doesn’t make me sad at all. I am thankful for every day I have of my red-scarf-and-black-boots-life in NY. I feel no deep tick tick to have children, although I reserve the right to change my mind. Maybe I’ll reproduce or maybe I’ll fly to whichever country is giving away babies to celebrities at the time and, like Madonna, scoop up a kid or two. And, as a single, unmarried woman (the boxes I always check on forms), it is fun to go out every night and either wonder if this will be The Night when you meet some One or, like last night, be completely swept up in the smoke of surprise. Flirting is fun – an addictive rush, like taking that first bite out of a cupcake. Story-swapping is fun – oh, we’ve lived in the same cities, and oh, the same plays changed our lives.

But what feels life changing to me could be just another pretty face to him. It could be nothing more than a blip. A fly-over state.We’ll see if he calls and I’ll try to get the image of having a dinner party together out of my fat head.

In high school, you’re working toward college. In college, you’re working toward graduation. In grad school, you’re working towards The Job. And I suppose once you’ve got The Job, you’re working towards the promotion or the tenure or the pilot. But the other markers are harder to see. Marriage is one. Having a child is another. In the absence of those… everything seems flotsamy. You become sure of… the direction your plane is heading. And sometimes, little else.

All I have to do is get to my destination.

Here I am, on this plane, shuttling between time zones, between coasts, between the past and the present, between life and death, between the deep hope of a partnered life and the gnawing resolution of singledom. I’m flying solo. With a cat in a bag at my feet.

God, I hope he calls.