Junkyard Post One Week Three

A woman in Spandex and boob receipts sits four rows in front of me on the airplane, when she decides to get up and walk back to her husband. It's twenty minutes until we are supposed to pull away from the gate and she's shifting. Her black suede bag, too big for the aisle, bumps my shoulder and I nudge the woman in a fur vest next to me, who for the next eight plus hours won't eat, drink or watch anything. (Not that she could help that last one, she had a malfunctioning "entertainment center.") I look forward as the flight deck announces that there's a leaking fluid valve and it'll be 45 minutes until we're airborne.