Teddy tried to nap but kept flinching. I watched him tense and decided I’d had enough of passive rudeness. When the drink cart came, Teddy ordered a gin and tonic and I took a bottle of water, twisting the cap deliberately slow so it looked clumsy.
I tipped the water and let half spill onto her bag tucked beside her feet. It soaked in, dark and unmistakable. She didn’t notice right away and kept yammering — until I poured a sip of Teddy’s gin right onto her bare toes.
She let out a scream, yanked her feet back and nearly kicked her friend. The cabin went silent for a beat. I smiled an innocent apology and blamed turbulence.
She sputtered and swore, wiping her feet with napkins, calling me disgusting. Her friend sniffed about paying for comfort. A few rows over people shifted, more alert now.
When the meal service came, she actually apologized aloud for nearly spilling hot food on herself and — as if by magic — kept her feet off Teddy’s seat for the rest of the flight. Every time she looked at me afterward she shot me a death glare; I kept my face blank and sipped my drink like a saint. Petty?
Maybe. Effective? Absolutely.
By the time we taxiied in, her bag was visibly damp, and she shoved past us at deplaning, muttering. Teddy squeezed my hand and laughed as we walked through the terminal. “You really showed her,” he said, eyes twinkling.
“I’m showering first,” he added. “Then crashing.” “Same,” I said, and for once I let myself enjoy the small, satisfying victory of defending the little slice of decency that belonged to us.
