Shared Air: Seat 24C, Passenger Kimberly Dennis
Trying not to touch anyone but unavoidably touching everyone.
Kim felt them staring.
She felt them everywhere she went, the heavy looks of judgment and disgust. She’d learned a long time ago how to hold her gaze—to fix her eyes on the ground, not make eye contact, and look appropriately ashamed of herself. Some places were easier than others. Restaurants and grocery stores were the worst: people peering into her cart, scrutinizing its contents, or watching what the waiter brought and if she ordered dessert.
But this? This is a close second.
She slowly made her way down the aisle, trying not to touch anyone but unavoidably touching everyone. Hips, belly, and thighs pressing against arms and shoulders, one foot at a time. Some people refused to move even an inch, as if to challenge or punish her. Others recoiled, like she’s repulsive. Like her fat is contagious.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. Excuse me. Sorry. Sorry.”
She silently promised herself she would never fly again, no matter whose funeral it meant missing.
She glanced at the row numbers.
That’s only row 9, she thought desperately. Oh my God, it’s so far away.
Kim looked towards the back of the plane, past a sea of people, her face hot with embarrassment.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She couldn’t wait for this trip to be over. She just wanted to go home and be by herself with her cat and her books.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a reminder to put carry-on items under the seat in front of you if they will fit. We have a full plane today and need as much overhead bin space as possible to accommodate everyone. Thank you for your assistance.”
Kim cringed. The trip out had been hard, but at least the plane had a lot of empty seats.
“Excuse me. Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Finally, row 24. She was grateful for her aisle seat. Her row was empty, but she knew that was too good to last. She dreaded having someone in the middle. They were going to hate her.
She lifted the inside armrest and sank into her chair. She knew a flight attendant would be by shortly to offer her the seatbelt extender.
Kim thought about her grandma’s funeral, how her father’s empty, stiff hug felt like a stranger’s, with a robotic pat pat pat and release. He would not look at her or even stand near her. She didn’t bother trying to talk to him; he never had anything to say. Her mother overcompensated, as usual, with a pitying smile and fluttering hands, offering chocolate candies and small packs of powdered donuts from the endless supply in her purse.
She’d had 22 years of that. Now Kim carried her own consolation prizes. She’d eat some later, alone, in the lavatory.