“You’re Sitting in the Wrong Seat”
The words came sharply from behind me. A manicured hand gripped my shoulder and yanked. Hot coffee splashed across my newspaper and soaked into my jeans.
“Excuse me?” I said, instinctively rising to my feet.
A white woman in her late forties loomed over me, impeccably dressed in a cream-colored designer suit. Her hair was flawless, diamonds weighed heavily on her wrist, and her perfume cut through the air. Without hesitation, she dropped into Seat 1A.
“There,” she said, adjusting her jacket. “Much better.”
I stared—not so much at the act itself, but at the entitlement behind it. “I believe that’s my seat,” I said calmly.
She looked me up and down, slowly and deliberately. “Sweetheart,” she replied with barely concealed contempt, “first class is at the front. Economy is in the back.”
Nearby passengers began to stare. Phones were raised. Whispers rippled through the cabin.
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