It had already been a long week — the kind of family visit that drains the soul more than it warms it. By the time my husband, Teddy, and I reached the airport, I was running purely on caffeine, irritation, and the promise of finally sleeping in my own bed again. Teddy, as always, was unfazed — cheerful, calm, and impossibly patient.
We settled into our seats on row 17 — him by the window, me in the middle — and I could almost taste relief. The engines hummed, passengers buckled in, and I pulled the blanket over my lap, ready to close my eyes. That’s when it happened — the first dull thump against Teddy’s seat. Then another. Then the unmistakable slap of skin on fabric.
I leaned over. “Teddy,” I whispered, “the woman behind you has her bare feet on your seat.”
He turned slightly, half-asleep. “What?”
Sure enough, there they were — two bare feet, toenails painted neon pink, resting on the top of his seatback like she was at home watching TV. The woman, maybe in her thirties, was chatting loudly with her seatmate, earbuds dangling.
Teddy, ever the diplomat, turned and said, “Excuse me, could you please put your feet down? It’s uncomfortable.”
She smirked. “Relax, I’m just stretching.”
Stretching. On his seat. Barefoot.
When she didn’t move, Teddy pressed the call button. A flight attendant arrived, perfectly composed, and with a voice sharp enough to slice metal, said, “Ma’am, please keep your feet down. It’s unhygienic and disrespectful.”
The woman huffed but obeyed — until the attendant left. Then came the thud again.
I clenched my jaw. Teddy sighed, sensing the storm brewing beside him. “Maeve,” he whispered, “let it go.”
But I wasn’t raised to “let it go.”
When the drink cart rolled down the aisle, I smiled politely at the attendant. “Just water for me, thanks.” As soon as she moved on, I tilted the bottle and poured a slow trickle straight into the open pocket of the woman’s canvas tote wedged behind Teddy’s seat.
A few minutes later came the gasp. “What the—? My bag!” she shouted, yanking out a soaked wallet and damp paperback.
“Did someone spill something?” she demanded, glaring around.
I closed my eyes, feigning sleep. Teddy stifled a laugh behind his hand.
The attendant returned, apologetic but unmoved. “Condensation happens, ma’am. Please keep your belongings stowed.”
The woman grumbled, wiping her bag, muttering under her breath. But her feet? They stayed firmly on the floor. For about ten minutes. Then came the deliberate kicking — rhythmic, petty, impossible to ignore.
Teddy turned, voice low but hard. “Enough.”
She sneered. “What are you gonna do, complain again?”
I smiled. Because she had no idea — round two was coming.
