He glanced up.
“Obviously.”
“Could you take them down?”
“They’re wet.”
“I can smell that.”
Across the aisle, a woman looked over and wrinkled her nose.
The man shrugged.
“That’s why they’re there. They need to dry.”
“Not beside my head.”
“Then lean forward.”
I blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“Lean forward, lady. Problem solved!”
“This is my seat.”
“And those are my socks. You’ll survive!”
He put his headphones back on.
I sat facing forward for several seconds.
I was 42 years old.
I’d survived a broken washing machine, two teenagers, and a neighbor who practiced the trumpet at seven every morning.
But nothing had prepared me for a grown man treating my headrest like his backyard clothesline.
I didn’t know his name.
So I privately promoted him to “Captain Compost.”
I pressed the flight attendant call button.
A few minutes later, a woman wearing a navy uniform stopped beside me.
