The cabin hummed softly as I settled into my window seat in business class, the leather seat cool beneath me. The flight from London to Edinburgh stretched ahead, long but quietjust enough for work, just enough for rest. Passengers shuffled in, stowing bags, flight attendants offering pre-takeoff drinks. Routine.
Then he arrived. A man in a tailored Savile Row suit, clutching a sleek briefcase, oozing entitlement. His gaze swept over the seat beside me, then fixed on me with undisguised disgust. “Bloody hell,” he announced, loud enough for the entire cabin to hear. “I paid for business class, not a cattle truck. Cant even stretch my legs.”
His eyes rolled theatrically before landing back on me, a sneer twisting his mouth. “Ive got a conference to prep for, and now Im wedged in like a sardine.” He dropped into the seat with a huff, elbow jabbing my side for emphasis. The sting was sharper than it shouldve been. I turned to the window, swallowing the heat behind my eyes.
The flight dragged. He rustled papers, sighed, shiftedevery movement a performance. I said nothing. I was used to sideways glances, to whispered judgments. But this? This was venom.
Then, as the plane touched down in Edinburgh, the script flipped.
My assistantpolite, efficientappeared at my row. “Dr. Whitmore,” he said, “shall we head straight to the conference venue after hotel check-in? Everythings arranged.”
The man beside me froze. I felt his stare like a physical weight. When the assistant left, his voice cracked into something unrecognizablehushed, shaky. “Youre youre attending the conference?” A nervous laugh. “I heard Dr. Eleanor Whitmore was speaking. Her work on neural networksbrilliant stuff.”
I stood, smoothing my coat. “Yes,” I said. “Thats me.”
His face drained of colour. Words tumbled outadmiration, apologies, a sudden reverencebut I only smiled, brittle and polite, and stepped past him. He stayed slumped in his seat, deflated.
I hope he remembers this next time he mistakes a person for a punchline.
