And my hip started.
And when I asked again he sighed, theatrically.
“I’m six foot three. Where exactly do you want my legs to go?”
“In the space you paid for.”
And he smirked.
“If you’re not using the space, what’s the problem?”
And he put his headphones back on and carried on with his crisps.
That sentence stayed with me.
A bit later I tried to get my tray down and his elbow was half across it.
“Seriously?”
And he did not look up. “You women love making everything a problem.”
And I swallowed it.
I have spent most of my life getting out of the way. Ken used to say I would apologise to a chair for bumping into it.
And sitting there, folded into a seat I had paid four hundred and eleven pounds for while a stranger behaved as though a small body meant a smaller allocation, something in me finally went.
