ree hours into a packed flight, something damp brushed the top of my hair.
I reached up automatically.
At first, I thought somebody’s blanket had slipped over my seat.
Then I smelled it.
Imagine a gym locker that had been locked since Thanksgiving.
Now imagine somebody warming it in a microwave.
I slowly turned my head.
Two socks hung over the top of my seat.
They had probably been white once.
The soles were gray-brown, the heels were nearly black, and the fabric around the toes looked suspiciously damp.
One sock was dangling about four inches from my face.
The other had apparently decided my hair was a drying rack.
I stared at them.
Surely not.
I turned around.
The man behind me was barefoot, wearing headphones and scrolling through his phone.
His feet were stretched beneath the seat in front of him.
My seat.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Are those your socks?”
