the statistical probability of love at first sight book

She's spent the past few weeks secretly wishing this very thing might happen, though admittedly, her imagined scenarios have been a bit more dramatic: a massive airline strike an epic hailstorm an immobilizing case of the flu, or even the measles, that would prevent her from flying. 'There's nothing we can do but try to get you on the later flight.' 'I'm sorry, Miss,' one of them says, the suppressed sigh evident in her voice. The screen behind them has already been switched to announce the next flight from JFK to Heathrow, which doesn't leave for more than three hours, and it's quickly becoming obvious that Hadley is the only thing standing between them and the end of their shift. The gate attendants have gathered on the opposite side of the counter to frown at her with looks of great impatience. Part of it is the impending flight and part of it is the airport itself, but mostly- mostly-it's the realization that she'll now be late for the wedding she didn't even want to go to in the first place, and something about this miserable little twist of fate makes her feel like crying. The light outside is starting to disappear and her plane is now somewhere over the Atlantic, and she can feel something inside of her unraveling, like the slow release of air from a balloon. This is just one of the many things that Hadley's trying not to think about as she stands helplessly before the ticket counter. It's not just the looming threat of the ride ahead-being stuffed into seats like sardines and then catapulted through the air in a narrow metal tube-but also the terminals themselves, the press of people, the blur and spin of the place, a dancing, dizzying hum, all motion and noise, all frenzy and clamor, and the whole thing sealed off by glass windows like some kind of monstrous ant farm.

Airports are torture chambers if you're claustrophobic.

The statistical probability of love at first sight book