Then Vanessa stormed down the aisle like she was late for her own coronation. Designer yoga outfit, oversized sunglasses propped in her hair even though it was 11 p.m., rolling a carry-on the size of a small coffin. She stopped dead at row 14, glared at the empty window seat, and decided the universe had personally saved it for her.
The flight attendant politely explained it was assigned. Vanessa responded by laughing—actually laughing—in the attendant’s face. “Do you know who I am?” Classic.
When the crew wouldn’t budge, she pivoted to me like I was a customer-service chatbot she could intimidate.
“You’re in aisle? Perfect. Switch with me. I get claustrophobic.” She said it like a doctor’s note was about to drop out of the sky and back her up.
“No thank you,” I answered, already turning back to my podcast.
That’s when her mask slipped. The fake smile evaporated. She spent the next five minutes hissing about “young people today” and “basic human decency” while the rest of the cabin pretended to be very interested in their seatbelt demonstrations.