Brian Dylan

In the economy class, he shared his row with the overflowing bulk of a fat woman. She wore a tourist’s sweatshirt that proudly proclaimed she recently been to Florida. She reeked of copious amounts of coconut cream sunscreen. She reminded him of a seal glistening with secreted natural oils and her odor made him desire Susan’s macaroons – his favorite cookies she had no doubt served to the adulterous invader. Professedly anxious about flying, she talked constantly. Nodding responses, curt answers, staring out the window – he could not dissuade her from prying into his life with an incessant nattering of “polite” questions. She even tapped his arm when he hid in his headphones. No, he had never been to Florida. He was sure it was lovely. No, he was not on business. He lived in Pittsburgh. He was flying home. He worked in insurance. He did not have any kids. He did not mind flying. He agreed; the seats were too small. In the second hour, he finally got some peace when she fell asleep, snored melodically and drooled on the sparkly stencil of a palm tree on her prodigious left breast.