I don’t belong here.
There is a hush up here that feels almost sacred. Behind the heavy curtain somewhere aft of row four, I know there is chaos: the scrum for overhead bins, the polite "excuse me"s, the baby who is about to cry, the man who has already reclined into a stranger’s lap. I remember that life. I lived that life for forty years.
The flight attendant—her name is Sylvie, according to the tiny gold pin on her blazer—remembers my preference. She doesn’t ask if I want champagne. She simply places a glass of Billecart-Salmon on the burled walnut tray and says, "Welcome back, Mr. H."