Probably because he hasn’t flown since the day we arrived almost two weeks ago. The longest he’s ever gone without being in the air since he moved to Alaska, he noted last night, as we lay naked and out of breath, in postcoital bliss. Suddenly, he spins to face me, walking backward. “By the way, what is that stuff in the fridge? In the jars?” “Chia pudding. I made it for breakfast. Like it?” “No.” He screws up his face. “Not even a little bit.” I shrug. “It’s healthy for you.” He waves off my words, turning his back to me. “You should go for a run!” he hollers over his shoulder. “You must have
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