Never before had I felt genuine jealousy towards a child until this moment.
From behind, her small, shiny head snaps with each syllable.
“I
Don’t
Want
It!”
Colored pencils fling down, a half-scribbled page of the picture book hangs, limp on the ledge of the serving tray, pushed aside by an intrusive slice of yellowed French toast, piped and speckled with brown, flanked by jeweled strawberries—oversized rubies really—growing thin, emerald stems.
A smile stretches, whitened teeth, an updo.
“Would she rather have an omelet?” The long neck in loafers asks.
This is a caste system, I’m merely a visitor, the rear’s bathroom line snaked long through the butt of the plane.
The front line’s wait is roomier and offers a snapshot, the other half’s idiosyncrasies.
The family knows nothing of meritocracy, preferring instead a blanket reaction for want of this and want of that.
The omelet appears simultaneous with the burnout of the “occupied” light.
Inside the bathroom, blue swirly water and florescent buzz, scratchy facial tissue, the weak, lukewarm tap.
Out, to borrow another moment from first class is an impossibility, as impatient passenger full of diet soda stand in wait, and in the way.
From behind, her small, shiny head snaps with each syllable.
“I
Don’t
Want
It!”
Colored pencils fling down, a half-scribbled page of the picture book hangs, limp on the ledge of the serving tray, pushed aside by an intrusive slice of yellowed French toast, piped and speckled with brown, flanked by jeweled strawberries—oversized rubies really—growing thin, emerald stems.
A smile stretches, whitened teeth, an updo.
“Would she rather have an omelet?” The long neck in loafers asks.
This is a caste system, I’m merely a visitor, the rear’s bathroom line snaked long through the butt of the plane.
The front line’s wait is roomier and offers a snapshot, the other half’s idiosyncrasies.
The family knows nothing of meritocracy, preferring instead a blanket reaction for want of this and want of that.
The omelet appears simultaneous with the burnout of the “occupied” light.
Inside the bathroom, blue swirly water and florescent buzz, scratchy facial tissue, the weak, lukewarm tap.
Out, to borrow another moment from first class is an impossibility, as impatient passenger full of diet soda stand in wait, and in the way.
7 comments:
I hear that first class is 'reel niiice'. At least that's what they say...I myself may never know :)
Oh the brattiness of the rich...
I flew first class once. I don't remember it being very special. maybe because I slept through the flight.
That kid sounds like a brat. If that was me, my mother would've beat my ass and made me finish the french toast.
I understand the jealousy, but her parents aren't doing her any favors. With an attitude like that, life can only ever disappoint, and she's well on her way to becoming a miserable woman.
Your best post yet.
Speaking of jealousy...I want to write like you when I grow up.
the only time I've ever been upgraded was my shortest flight ever. Great though! Nice post, boy does it capture that divide.
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