I watch the other cabins board through the gap in the curtain. The economy passengers shuffle past, eyes flicking toward the flat-bed seats with a mixture of curiosity and mild resentment. I feel a flush of guilt. I was them last Tuesday. I will be them next Tuesday.
April 14, 2026 Location: 37,000 feet somewhere over the Atlantic first class pov
I don’t belong here.
When the cart comes, it is not a cart. It is a tablecloth. Sylvie sets a miniature salt cellar and a pepper grinder next to my plate. The salmon is not dry. The salad is not warm. There is an actual fork, heavy and cold, not a spork made of biodegradable sadness. I watch the other cabins board through the
I am not "Mr. H" anywhere else. At home, I am "Hey, can you take out the trash?" At work, I am the guy who sends the calendar invites. But up here, for the next seven hours, I am a protagonist. I was them last Tuesday
Walking onto the plane was like stepping into a different dimension.