When the flight took off, he was just a well-built, graying man with a wrinkled button-up shirt and a day-old copy of USA Today. By the time we landed, I knew him as Will, the 36-year-old recent divorcee who had spent the weekend with his college buddies, commiserating in his recent woes. I knew he preferred red wine over white, used to work as an animator who now dabbled in agency graphic design and would do anything for tickets to see U2. And he was recently diagnosed as bi-polar by the same doctor who advised he have knee surgery a few years back.
When our plane landed, he said his farewells to the woman he was sitting next to (in the row behind me) and went on his merry way.
So is the nature of the standard airplane seatmate / therapist relationship.







