The man behind me looked about forty-five.
Tan. Fit, in a gym-membership way. Salt-and-pepper hair cut short and expensive. A navy quarter-zip pullover with a little embroidered logo of some golf club. A big silver watch on his wrist that probably cost more than my car. Wireless headphones. A laptop open on his tray table, playing some action movie with lots of explosions.
His shoes were kicked under the seat in front of him. My seat. Brown leather loafers. No socks.
He’d stretched one leg up, bent at the knee, and wedged his bare foot through the gap between my seat and the window seat. Right onto my armrest.
He was leaning back with his eyes half-closed, looking extremely comfortable.
“Excuse me,” I said.
He didn’t hear me. Or he pretended not to.
“Excuse me,” I said, louder.
He pulled one headphone aside. Just one. He looked at me like I was a fly that had landed on his sandwich.
“Could you move your foot?” I said.
“It’s not touching you.”
“It’s on my armrest.”
“My feet need to breathe.”
I stared at him.
“Then let them breathe in your own seat,” I said.
He smirked.
“It’s an airplane,” he said. “We’re all sharing space.”
He glanced at my other arm. My left arm. The one on the far side, where the window-seat woman’s elbow already was.
“So use your other armrest,” he said, “and don’t bother me.”
I stared at him.
He smiled. Put his headphone back on. Turned back to his explosions.
And he wiggled his toes.
Right next to my elbow. All five of them. Like he was waving at me.
