I count the rows ahead to eyeball my beloved aisle seat and that’s when I see him sitting there by the window. Him being the “you’ll never know who you’ll meet” my mom was talking about. My first thought: fuck Tasha, you could have at least put on mascara.
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I don’t want to feel your fingers twitching because you’re drumming on the middle arm rest. I don’t want to feel you kicking my seat from behind because you’re convinced you can make the seat recline juuuuust a bit further. I don’t want to have to deal with you at all.