A story I Invented at 30,000 Feet

After a long layover in Frankfurt, it was time to board another Lufthansa flight. This time, thankfully, my boarding pass contained an actual seat number rather than the horrifying word standby. The flight to Ljubljana would take just a little over an hour.

I have always preferred aisle seats: no obstruction when I want to get out and, more importantly, no need to annoy anyone else when I do.

But today, dressed in an oversized beige hoodie which was slipping down her left shoulder almost like silk from polished marble, phone in one hand and tablet in the other, a young woman occupied my preferred seat.

From experience, passengers sitting in the aisle usually stand up to let those assigned the middle or window seat pass.

Her method was considerably more efficient.

She simply drew her legs together and lifted them just enough to place both heels on the edge of her seat, leaving me—a small man—just enough space to squeeze through.

I slid into the middle seat, placed my backpack on the floor and pushed it beneath the seat in front using my feet.

At this point, I would like to introduce you to one of my travel philosophies.

It states:

I shall avoid plugging in my earbuds to mindlessly listen to music or podcasts, or to watch videos. Instead, I shall force myself to observe the people around me, read, or ruminate—mostly on my worries.

I would not recommend the rumination part unless you use it for healthier purposes than I do.

Following my own philosophy in today's digital world is unsurprisingly difficult, but I persist with it regardless.

It does, after all, give me stories to write.

So, keeping my head suspiciously straight, I stole a glance from the corner of my eyes at both of my co-passengers.

The woman in beige completed her outfit with matching track pants and white sneakers, which she had taken off. She sat slightly turned away from me, so that part of her back faced me rather than resting fully against the seat. Her tablet rested on her right thigh, while her head leaned against her right hand, which in turn rested on the armrest.

The woman on my left wore a purple jacket, grey track pants and white sneakers.

Her sitting position was uncannily similar to that of the woman on my right. She, too, was turned slightly away from me, with part of her back to me as she looked out the window.

Both of them seemed to be angled away from each other.

Unlike the other woman, the one on my left slept through almost the entire flight.

But before falling asleep, and again after waking, she displayed a behaviour that caught my attention.

Now and then, she would steal a glance at the woman to my right, almost as though she were trying to get her attention.

There was no response from the other side.

The woman in beige remained completely absorbed in her tablet.

One advantage of my travel philosophy is that it gives you plenty of time to formulate theories, invent stories about your surroundings and generally entertain yourself with absolutely no evidence.

So, once the plane had taken off and the woman on my left had drifted into a deep sleep, I began constructing one.

In my story, I knew nothing about where the two women lived or what their relationship was. But they knew each other.

The woman on the left cared very much about the one on the right. They were travelling to Slovenia together for a short holiday. Somewhere before boarding, however, they had a minor disagreement about their itinerary.

The argument had now developed into a silent battle of egos.

Neither wanted to speak first.

So the only real question was: who would give in?

The end.

Having completed my imaginary story, I opened an actual one I had been reading—Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment.

Annoyingly, I soon found myself reading the same lines twice, sometimes three times.

With only a few dozen pages left, I finally admitted what should probably have been obvious much earlier: Dostoevsky was not suited to casual in-flight reading. His writing demanded the reader's full attention, and mine was apparently occupied with creating fictional disputes between strangers.

To my relief, an announcement came over the speakers informing us that the crew were preparing for landing.

The woman on my left slowly began rousing herself from a deep sleep. Through bleary eyes, she picked up her phone.

As usual, I folded my arms, tucked my chin towards my chest and drifted back into rumination.

That lasted until my eyes inadvertently fell on her phone screen.

I should probably have looked away.

I didn't.

Instead, I spent another two or three seconds studying her home screen.

“How about that?” I thought, a smile forming on my lips.

My imaginary story had got at least one thing right.

There, on her phone's wallpaper, was a lovely photograph of the two women together, laughing without a care in the world.