Business class. A long flight. Id booked my ticket well in advance, snagging a window seatjust wanted a peaceful journey, maybe get some work done, maybe nap a little. Everything was proceeding as usual: passengers shuffling down the aisle, suitcases wedged into overhead bins, flight attendants offering water with practised smiles.
Id just settled in when a man in an expensive suit boarded, clutching a leather briefcase like it held state secrets. He strode to his seatright beside minewith the unshakable confidence of someone whod never been told “no.” He glanced at the seat, then at me, curled his lip, and announced, loud enough for half the cabin to hear:
“Good Lord. I paid for business class, not a sardine tin at rush hour!”
He rolled his eyes theatrically and shot me a look dripping with disdain.
“Ive got a major conference to prep for, and now I cant even sit properly,” he grumbled, flopping into the seat like a petulant child denied pudding.
The subtext was clear. Or rather, the text was me.
“Why on earth do they even sell seats to people like her in here?” he mutteredjust loudly enough to ensure I heard.
He spent the flight elbowing me like I was an inconvenient armrest, sighing dramatically, rustling papers like a man conducting a one-man protest. I stared out the window, blinking back tears. Who knew a grown man in a tailored suit could throw a tantrum worthy of a toddler denied sweets?
Then came the landing. As we disembarked, my assistantwhod been in economyapproached with a polite nod. “Mrs. Whitmore, shall we head straight to the conference venue after hotel check-in? Everythings arranged.”
The man beside me froze. I felt his stare. My assistant walked off, and suddenly, Mr. Sardine Tins tone did a full 180:
“Erm youre attending the conference? I heard a Dr. Whitmorea renowned cognitive scientistis speaking.”
“Indeed,” I said, hoisting my bag. “Thats me.”
He turned the colour of weak tea, stammering something about being a “huge admirer” of my work. I offered a polite smile and exited first, leaving him deflated like a punctured balloon.
Heres hoping he learns not to judge a book by its coveror a scientist by her seatmate tolerance.
