Window Seat
I have the window seat. The guy in the middle seat doesn’t stand up to let me by.
In some places it’s considered polite to turn your buttocks to the person you’re squeezing past; in other places it’s polite to turn your buttocks away.
I fly so much on business I forget where I am sometimes.
The tarmac is wet. The aisle passenger takes her seat. A baby cries.
The guy in the middle unwraps a fast-food hamburger. I hate fast food; nonetheless my gastric juices flow.
He smiles meekly at me. He’s not bad looking, or maybe I just can’t tell anymore.
I’m 27 and I feel really old sometimes.
I wonder how old the guy with the burger is.
The next time he glances in my direction, we’ll see what happens. Where things take me.
I would never eat a messy hamburger like that on a crowded flight. Plus, I’m allergic to onions.
Oh, he’s looking.
There’s ketchup on his face. I make the universal symbol. He wipes it away. Was there something between us? Or is it possible he likes the girl in the aisle seat? I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.
That hamburger smells really good.
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