I paid extra for that seat.
It was a long-haul flight, and I had specifically booked an aisle seat near the front so I could stretch my legs and get off quickly after landing. I’m a tall guy, and cramming into a middle seat for ten hours sounded like torture.
Boarding was smooth—until a woman holding a baby stopped beside me. “Excuse me,” she said, “would you mind switching seats so I can sit next to my husband? I’m in 32B.”
I glanced at her seat assignment. A middle seat. In the very last row.
I apologized and told her I’d prefer to keep my seat. She sighed loudly and muttered, “Wow, okay.” Loud enough for people around us to hear.
