her curtained cubby

​“Excuse me, miss,” Randolf J. Kuppersmid said, waving over a steward. “How much longer until we land?”
“Well, we only just took off,” the young woman replied as she glanced down at her tiny golden watch, calculating. “But we should be landing in Atlanta in about three hours.”
“Oh, OK. Thank you,” Randolf said, his heart sinking. He rattled the ice cubes melting at the bottom of his plastic cup, remembering that he’d wanted to order another diet pop. The steward was gone, however, vanished into her curtained cubby. His girthy waist - hemmed in by armrests - threatened to spill over into the seat next to him.
“It’s not easy sitting here like this,” he said, chuckling. The man next to him stayed silent, however, and refused to look over, or reply.
‘How much longer can I take sitting here, doing nothing?’ he thought, forgetting that he had wasted four hours out of each of his previous 730 days alive on this Earth glued to a cheap plastic chair in his living room, his eyes fixed on a cheap flat-screen television, his brain processing cheap reality-style content created by storytellers who’d long before then run out of ideas. ‘After this visit to grandma, I don’t ever want to fly, again. This is torture.’

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥