The hum of the airplane engines had always been oddly comforting to me, a low, steady vibration that lulled me into a sense of calm. I loved flying, the illusion of detachment it gave from the world below, the sense of transition that came with being somewhere between departure and arrival. But that illusion shattered within minutes of settling into my seat on a twelve-hour flight from New York to Zurich.
I had chosen an aisle seat near the middle of the cabin, hoping for an easy stretch of legs and minimal disturbance. I’d been traveling for work —a presentation at a conference that had drained me mentally and physically —and all I wanted was peace, a meal, and a few hours of sleep before landing. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
The first thud came as soon as we hit cruising altitude. A sharp jolt against the small of my back. Then another.
And another. At first, I thought it was turbulence, but when I glanced over my shoulder, the culprit revealed himself to be a boy of about six, legs swinging rhythmically, connecting with the back of my seat as if it were a soccer ball. His sneakers had cartoon dinosaurs on them, and with every kick, they stamped little impressions of chaos into my spine.
His parents sat beside him, the father glued to his tablet, the mother flipping through a glossy magazine. Neither looked up, neither noticed. Or perhaps, more accurately, neither cared.
I turned slightly and offered a polite smile. “Hey there, buddy,” I said, keeping my voice friendly. “Could you try not to kick my seat, please?”
The boy stared at me blankly for a moment before turning back to the small screen in front of him.
A moment of silence passed. Then thud. Another kick.
I tried again, this time addressing the parents. “Excuse me, I think your son keeps kicking my seat.”
The mother looked up slowly, as though I’d interrupted something far more important than common courtesy. “He’s just a kid,” she said with a dismissive shrug.
“He’ll settle down.”
“He’s been doing it for a while,” I said, still calm. “It’s a bit uncomfortable.”
She sighed dramatically. “Well, maybe try reclining your seat less.
He doesn’t have much space.”
I blinked at her, speechless for a moment. I hadn’t even reclined my seat yet. The father finally looked up from his tablet, annoyance flashing across his face.
“Look, he’s six. What do you expect us to do? Tie his legs down?”
I felt a flush rise to my cheeks, not from anger yet, but disbelief.
“I just expect him not to kick me.”
The father gave a half-laugh, shaking his head as though I were being unreasonable. The mother turned back to her magazine, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “some people just can’t handle kids.”
I faced forward again, my patience hanging by a thread. I’d always believed in kindness when traveling.
Everyone was tired, everyone was just trying to get somewhere. But the kicks kept coming, rhythmic and deliberate, punctuated by the occasional “Mom, hee hee!” giggle that made my jaw tighten. An hour passed.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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