As I boarded the plane, everything felt wrapped in a peculiar haze, like the sky itself had forgotten how to be blue. My wife, Alice, and I were heading to visit relatives in London, our tickets crisp with the promise of an early spring. I’d carefully chosen two seats together, with one by the window left freejust as a bird might leave a feather behind.
The aircraft, a strange beast with three neat rows that seemed to bend and shimmer, waited for us. I was sure of our seats: left of centre, just where the clouds would brush the horizon if they fancied a chat. But as we floated down the aisle, I found our chosen spots already taken. I glanced at my boarding pass, the numbers dancing before my eyes like mischievous sprites. Nothing amiss there.
In my seat sat a woman whose hair was the colour of faded parchment, and next to her, a little boy with cheeks round as applesfive years old, perhaps. Both looked perfectly at ease, as if theyd always belonged there, as if theyd grown roots right out of the patterned upholstery.
You’re in our seats, I managed, though my voice came out sounding like it was underwater.
No answer. Alice repeated the request, more insistent now. The woman turned to us, her eyes wide and full of the London fog.
My Oliver wanted to watch the clouds go by, she declared, as if she were reciting a nursery rhyme. First come, first served, you see. We shant budge. There are empty spots in the centre; do take those, will you?
I felt the world tilt. Im sorry, but we booked these seats, on purpose. Please, dont make a spectaclejust lets swap back.
She looked at me as though Id asked her to move Stonehenge. Cant you see hes excited? If I shift him now, hell raise merry hell. Dont you have children? Youre an adult. Be reasonable.
We could have argued forever in that spinning, peculiar space, but instead we approached a steward, who seemed to glide over the carpet with silver wings. Only when he asked did the woman gather her son and move, leaving their warmth behind like pressed flowers between pages.
I couldnt help wondering, drifting between the boundaries of dream and waking: if she wanted a window for Oliver so desperately, why not simply reserve one? Was it greed, or hope, or some stranger logic from another world?
The steward, calm as a pond, smoothed everything in minutes. The air in the cabin lightened, and fellow travellers sent me silent nodsrecognition of the camaraderie you only find while flying above hedgerows and patchwork fields. I had avoided a scene, tried to keep peace, and that, for this surreal journey, seemed enough.
The strangest part lingers still: Why do some parents act as if the world owes extra kindness simply for having young ones in tow? Alice and I have children too, but never has it crossed our minds to elbow others aside or leap the imagined queues.
The remainder of the flight drifted by in calm, dreamlike silence, and I hopedperhaps in vain, perhaps notthat the woman learned something about planning ahead, about grace in a sky-bound vehicle, and about not trapping fellow travellers in awkward, cloudy moments.
