Middle Seat

“Sorry, can I just…?”

“Sorry, sorry…”

I unbuckled and slid from my seat into the aisle, smiling deferentially and wincing inwardly as the metal armrest jammed into my buttock. A sweatsuit-clad beast slouched into the row and grunted into 11A, immediately snapping the window blind shut. He fumbled for the seat belt, made a futile attempt to buckle it, then extended it by eight inches before trying again. I slipped back in to my seat next to him.

It wasn’t even my seat. I had paid extra to book seat 7A online, which had a free adjacent seat and, if I was lucky, would give me the luxury of extra space to snooze against the window for the eight hours from New York back to London. The aisle seat was occupied by a small elderly woman and we sat in silent collusion as the passengers filed in, desperately hoping nobody would show up at the last minute to claim 7B. 

The plane door eventually closed and the last stragglers found their homes. 7B remained empty. I mentally punched the air in triumph and started to make some space for myself, elbows spilling over both armrests, legs stretched out and apart. 

“Sssssorry. Hiii, ladiesss.” The British Airways steward slithered over us, with a sympathetic smile. He looked like a teenager. His badge identified him as Stephen. 

“Would you mind if I moved you both to a different row? We have a couple with a young child and they want to sit together.” 

He gestured behind our heads to a man a few rows back who was looking at us with wide eyes and a hopeful smile. Behind him was a harassed woman holding a squirming girl. 

I should have known better, but…

“Yes, of course, no problem,” I chirped brightly and far too quickly. 

My aisle neighbor slow-blinked at me for a second and then stood up silently. I gathered my things and clambered out behind her. Stephen led us down the aisle, past the couple. The father flashed two thumbs up at me. I wanted to punch him. 

“You’re in 11B, darling,” Stephen simpered, ushering me into the row first. The elderly woman took the aisle seat. 

The window seat was empty, and for a second I thought I might still win the long-haul lottery. But then my hulking neighbor returned from one of what I would soon learn were his many trips to the toilet. Now, the three of us sat in mutual resentment, a trapped troika in our 1 square meter coffin.

The overhead lockers snapped shut as Stephen and his colleagues prepared the plane for takeoff.

From my new vantage point I watched in annoyance as the family arranged themselves across my $30 row. I could see two other rows that they could have just as easily occupied. Both contained male passengers. 

Of course, it’s always the single female passengers who are asked to move. Easy pickings. Less likely to kick up a fuss. 

I cursed my own compliance, my knee bouncing in irritation. Why did I agree immediately? I could have ignored Stephen, pretended not to hear. I could have politely but firmly told him I’d paid extra for my seat and been organized enough to book in advance. Why couldn’t this family have booked in advance? 

I could have glared menacingly, bared my teeth and snarled before Stephen had the chance to open his lip-glossed mouth, forcing him into retreat. My mind played out numerous scenarios where I take control of the situation. All of which I failed to do because I’m a nice middle-aged lady who just wants everyone to like her.

I sneaked a look at my reflection in the dark screen of my phone. I looked tired and washed out. My lips were invisible without my usual slick of Mac Lady Danger. I’d opted for comfort over style - sweatpants and no makeup because of Cosmopolitan doom-mongering about the dehydrating effects of low cabin humidity. I regretted that now. Without my usual armor I projected less authority and may not have been so easily taken advantage of.

My phone pinged with a message. My sister, Kate. She was waiting for me at home with a bottle of wine and a frozen lasagne. 

Kate had moved in a few weeks ago when her housemates had kicked her out. They owned the place and had decided they needed her room as a home office. So Kate had to go.

As a parting gift, she damaged the mains tap that linked the communal water supply to the house. Not badly - just enough so that it would drip slowly every time the washing machine or dishwasher was used. The mains tap was well hidden and Kate was certain her housemates wouldn’t find the leak for a long time, not before the cost of damages would run into the thousands.

Kate was always doing things like this. One time, we were shopping in a high end store and she felt that the sales assistant was rude to her. I hadn’t noticed personally, but Kate insisted that the girl had pulled a disagreeable face when she emerged from the changing room in a tight dress. 

When we were having coffee later, Kate told me that she had slipped a piece of leftover sashimi from her lunchbox under a loose piece of carpet in the dressing room. If undiscovered, the fishy stench would linger for months.

“What’s the point of these vendettas?” I had asked her as she guffawed. “Holding onto anger. Doesn’t it drain you?” 

“Karma,” she had replied. “If someone does something bad then they’ll get what’s coming to them. It’s just rebalancingthe universe and it makes me feel better to do it.”

“But they don’t know why they’re being punished. If you addressed issues calmly in the moment then they might learn something and you might find some peace.” 

Kate rolled her eyes. “Stop trying to HR me. What is it they say in Chicago? ‘Revenge is like lobster. Best served hot or cold.’”

I work in Human Resources for a large multinational and at the time had recently completed an in-house training course on conflict resolution. It taught me that a combination of collaboration and compromise was the best path to a good outcome. 

The trainer had helped me to identify my own personal conflict style as a mixture of accommodating and avoidant. Useful in some situations, but unresolved issues can blow up later. Everyone on the course was female and most of us had the same conflict style. The trainer said this was very common. 

We did a role play where we thought of someone we had an unresolved conflict with. I thought of Tonya, this blonde nightmare in my office. Tonka Tonya, I secretly called her on account of her intimidatingly wide shoulders.

Tonka Tonya was always taking credit for my work. She smirked during my presentations. She never shut up about that one time I got accidentally drunk at a team dinner. I loathed Tonya with a deep intensity. 

My partner took on the role of Tonya, responding to my “When you did this, I felt…” script with a spot-on impression of Tonya’s condescendingly nasal tones. In fact, it was so convincing that I struggled to keep my voice at a reasonable pitch and the trainer quietly asked me later if I perhaps might have anger issues.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.” The pilot’s pre-flight speech crackled through the loudspeaker. I messaged Kate back and set my phone to airplane mode.

My window seat neighbor was still on his phone. I stole a furtive glance at his screen and could see he was messaging someone called Natalya. Photos popped up in the thread showing a brunette girl in her 20s, pushing pert breasts together for the camera. Inflated lips pouted, trout-like. He bashed out insipid “miss you, babe” messages with insanely huge thumbs. Natalya responded with a picture of an ass like a whoopee cushion. 

The engines kicked to life, finally. Stephen started the safety demonstration, pinging his oxygen mask on his face with an over-the-top flourish. I sat stiffly, knees together, hands on thighs, waiting for takeoff. 

Then I noticed.

Both neighbors on either side of me had their arms on my armrests. The elderly lady’s arm was gently laid in a way that I could easily smack away, were I so inclined. The man was actively leaning into me, elbow on armrest, huge shaven cranium cradled by sausage fingers. My jaw tightened and a white-hot ember of anger grew in my chest.

What the…? Who were these yahoos? Everyone knows the unwritten rules of etiquette on an economy flight.

• Person in middle seat gets armrest priority.
• People in window and aisle seats lean away from the middle when resting.
• Keep legs and belongings within your own space. 
• Don’t recline your seat, be loud, eat smelly food, kick the chair in front of you, fart, burp…

Basically, make yourself as small and unobtrusive as possible until the hellish ordeal is over for everyone. Anything outside of this is a sure way to societal breakdown. 

A metallic ding heralded our temporary freedom. Seat belt signs off. Buckles snapped open and the cabin rustled with movement. Almost immediately, 11A unbuckled and made to get up, necessitating the same action from me and 11C.

I huffed and squeezed my way into the aisle once more, watching as 11A sauntered towards the toilet in a bow-legged gait that suggested either extreme alpha confidence or possible haemorrhoids. His lower half was encased in cream tracksuit bottoms.

A word was emblazoned in red letters across his derrière.

помста. Revenge.

I almost laughed out loud. I knew the word because my Ukrainian plumber had it tattooed on his arm. A former soldier with many tragic stories to tell, he had plausible rationale for that tattoo.

11A, I would venture to guess, did not. His muscles looked honed by weights and steroids rather than the battlefield. He looked bloated on a diet of reality shows and Tik Tok squat clips. His greatest tragedy probably involved a mishap with a protein shake. Revenge, indeed. My mind skipped through a rotoscope of insults as I waited for my new enemy to return.

Once we were all settled again, I fished my book out of my bag - Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I found my page, crossed my ankles and tried to settle in.

I felt a slight brush against my left knee. 11A’s legs were splayed wide, his knee easily breaching the frontline into my defensive zone. I stared at it in anger and disbelief. He cannot be serious. 

The brush felt like a thousand volts of electricity, and not in a romantic way. I felt violated by it.

I shifted my legs right slightly to create a sliver of space and break the connection. 

His knee moved even closer, resting against mine.

It was not a purposeful move, some misguided attempt to create a sexual frisson. He was simply completely oblivious to my existence. I shift my weight again, thinking he’ll notice the lack of resistance and pull back. 

He did not. 

The hairs on my arms screamed noiselessly. 

Then, a sudden high-pitched scream a few rows ahead. 7A. The child who had occupied my row. The sound was like a jagged needle drilling into my skull. Another longer one followed, a relentless, sorrowful wail that bounced off the metal cabin walls and into our ear canals, kicking our brains like footballs. 

I heard the mother murmur soothing noises of comfort. I could just make out the top of the father’s head resting against the window. My window. Probably asleep. That thumbs-up moron. I pictured grabbing those thumbs and breaking them like twigs while he howled in agony. 

I shut my eyes. The stale recycled air blew an uncomfortable chill through my skin. I had another sweater in my bag, but it was in the overhead locker and I didn’t want to make 11C get up again. I would do without.

Breathe in through the nose. Breathe out through the mouth. In. Out. Om Mani Padme Hum. 

The low hum of the engines created a constant white noise, a droning backdrop to the endless purgatory. Hours of limbo were periodically punctured by more bathroom trips from Natalya’s meaty boyfriend, yanking me from semi-consciousness. 

Something was kneading my back. The knees of the passenger behind me, pushing into my seat. 

Exhausted, I pulled down my tray and rested my head and hands on it. The cold air conditioning breathed ice on my neck. Uncomfortable, but if I stay like this long enough I could drift off…

The tray started to jab rudely into the top of my breasts as the seat in front of me reclined. I flopped back, breathing quickly and sharply. I was trapped in a pincer move. People from all sides of me inched in to my space. I ventured a tut. Nobody reacted.

I shut my eyes again.

The plane rumbled on. Had I slept? Was I awake? I felt like a pig trapped in a pen, shrinking back from the electric prod and screaming at my inevitable fate. Poor pigs. No agency. No chance of escape. Then sliced up as bacon.

Like me. They take slices of me, one at a time. Death by a thousand cuts. But I have agency. I’m not like the poor pig. I allow it. Why do I allow it?

Something cold dropped on my left arm. It was red and gungy. For a second I thought my skin was cut. But it was tomato juice. 11A was slurping from a large glass bottle. 

He looked at me. I stared into his eyes for the first time. They were blue and blank. I continued to stare. I didn’t blink. My eyes bore lasers right into his skull. He looked away, unbothered, and took another sip.

I grab the bottle and smash it over his head. 

Blood spurts like a geyser. He howls like a dying elephant. His spade hands cover his ears as I rain down more blows. Screams fill the air - maybe mine - muffled by the roar of blood pounding in my ear. 

I stand on my middle seat, hunched over, kicking again and again with my plane-friendly slip-on shoes. Stamp, stamp, in his groin, his chest. Each one sending a surge of adrenaline. I lean back, my head in the old lady’s lap, and continue to kick frantically, bicycle style, while he holds up his palms helplessly.

Heads pop up everywhere like meerkats.

“Madam! Madam! Stop!” I’m vaguely aware of Stephen screeching theatrically.

“GET OFF ME! Don’t fucking touch me, I’ll fucking kill you!” I’m aware of hands pulling at me. 

A fat stubbly man in a grubby t-shirt holds his phone up. The footage would later be splashed across dailymail.co.uk.

Airplane Rage! Woman Caught on Video Launching Full-Blown Attack Over Armrest Dispute.

The article would be full of grainy pictures of my demonic snarling face, flailing air stewards and passengers staring open-mouthed. The comments section would rage with debates about the legal and moral implications of moving people from their assigned seats. Politicians would be quoted, Elton John would offer me sanctuary…

A thud. My eyelids pinged open and the cold bright light seared my retinas. Green grass streaked past the window. A ripple of applause. 

We’d landed. How long was I asleep?

No blood. Spotless cream sweatsuit. Everyone in one piece. I blearily gathered my bags, disembarked and stumbled through the long gauntlet of passport control and baggage claim. 

The sliding doors opened to the arrivals hall. I faced a sea of hand-written signs waved by taxi drivers. I longed to be R. Chakraborty right now, whisked home on soft leather Mercedes seats. 

“Daddy!” 

11A was in front of me now, lifting up an ecstatic small child. A familiar blonde woman locked him in a long kiss.

It was Tonka Tonya.

I watched as they walked ahead, hand in hand, towards the exit. A happy family. Minus New York Natalya, of course. Tonya was chatting away to him animatedly, blonde ponytail swinging.

Those red letters rippled over his buttocks as he bounced through the hall. 

Revenge.

I felt a pang of something for Tonya. I wasn’t sure what, yet.

I’ll know on Monday.