Thanks to a little last-minute benevolence from my mother this Mother's Day weekend, I found myself on a plane to Miami.
As the flight filled up, a gorgeous young British gentleman sat down across the aisle beside me. After a few smiles and awkward glances, he started "chatting me up a bit" through the parade of legs and butts and stuffing of carry-on items in the overhead bins (which may settle during your flight).
Yup, this trip was looking pretty good ... until a rather unattractive family began to board the plane.
They were fat, loud, Whiskey Tango. They were trundling down the aisle - headed right for us. On top of that, one of the women was visibly, deathly afraid of flying.
"I'm glad I don't have to sit next to that mess," I said to British Guy, pretty sure that I wouldn't have to. Relate to this seating chart:
| aisle |
See? I thought I was safe.
"Actually," said British Guy, "this isn't my seat."
"!???!??" said I.
"My seat is actually several rows back. I just sat here becau-"
He was interrupted by a clasp of sausage fingers on his shoulder. "'Scuse me (sigh, wheeze) this is mah sit."
My heart sank. My Brit was pushed back towards the tail of the plane. The three sisters made their way to their seats.
| aisle |
At this point, the flight became an exercise in phobia-exposure therapy for FWT and WT1. WT2 seemed content enough to Spread Out into my personal space, forcing me to adopt a strange, 30-degree lean into the aisle.
Yup, this trip was gonna suck ... but don't feel bad for me. Sure, I "lost" my Hot British Guy in the shuffle and that was bad - but I could have been the poor bastard in the window seat.
Godspeed, some guy. Godspeed.
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