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I gasp, stumbling to the side. The papers fly out of my hands. “Crap!” I grumble.
The guy who bumped into me, wearing a red sweater and dark wash jeans, barely looks back as he continues on his way. His surprisingly deep dark brown eyes (seriously, they’re almost black) briefly meet my own, but he quickly faces forward again as he glides between slower couples in front of him.
“Yeah, no need to say sorry or anything, jerk!” I call after him. A second later, I wince at the dirty looks people flash me, especially from the mother who glares at me and tugs her son closer to her as she walks past me. I’m not even sure if the guy heard my insult, but it feels good to say it despite the public shaming.
A whimper slips from my chest as I hastily pick my papers up, scrambling to put them in order. I check my watch, only to pause. The big and little hand are in the same spot as they were the last time I checked it in the Uber—which I arrived in at least twenty minutes ago. I tap the glass a few times, but the hands refuse to budge. I pull my phone out of my pocket. 10:45 a.m. stares back at me.
10:45? But boarding started at 10:15! And according to my boarding pass, the gate’s all the way at the end of the airport.
With a barely concealed shriek, I shove the remaining documents in my backpack. I push myself to my feet and take off, zigzagging desperately around people walking way too slow for a busy place like an airport. I bump into a few people, but unlike The Jerk, I toss a quick apology in their general direction as I keep going.
Lungs burning, I make it to my gate. It’s empty, with most of the passengers already boarded, but the door’s still open as I stumble to a stop in front of the flight attendant. “Are you alright?” she asks in a concerned tone.
“Fine,” I wheeze. “I’m not too late, am I?”
“No, but you almost were! I was about to close the gate.”
I grin even though my chest is on fire. “Thank God.” I pluck my passport and boarding pass out of my bag and give both to her.
After a quick ID check, she gestures to the doorway. “Go right ahead.”
I take back my documents and walk down the path. I can’t afford to walk too slow, though, because I’m not sure when the doors to the plane will close, so my legs still hurt as I get to the entrance of the plane. One of the air hostesses greets me. “Assalaam-o-alaikum, and welcome to Jinnah International Airlines! Please find your seat.”
I make my way toward the back. I have to pause a few times, waiting for mothers to snatch their children out of the aisle and for people to put their luggage in the overhead compartment, but I make it to my seat. Unfortunately, I got saddled with the middle seat, but I won’t let it drag me down.
A young girl sits at the window, staring out at the tarmac. She pulls the shutter up and down and giggles at her own antics. A woman wearing a beige hijab is trying to fit a suitcase into the overhead bin. I assume she’s the girl’s mother, because she notices what the girl is doing and says, “Khadijah, baaz ajo!” in a dismissive tone. Khadijah slumps back into her seat, her lips pulled downward.
I clear my throat. She looks over at me, and I offer my best “teacher” smile. “Sorry, but I need to get to my seat,” I tell her in Urdu.
She perks up. “Oh, you’re the passenger in the middle seat?”
“Yeeesss. Is there a problem?”
“Oh, my husband,” the woman explains. “He had a work trip that got canceled last second, so when he bought his ticket, he couldn’t get a seat close to our family.” She points to someone behind me, and I look over to see an older man wearing a white topi sitting a few aisles away. He stares at us, anticipation wrinkling his face.
When I look back at the woman, she continues. “I hoped you wouldn’t mind changing seats with him so our family could sit together?”
I contemplate saying no, but one look at the woman’s hopeful face and Khadijah trying to peek over the seat in front of her to look at her dad makes me cave. “Sure, I’ll change seats. I don’t mind.”
“Oh, really?” She beams. “Shukriya, beta! May Allah reward your kindness.” She beckons her husband over, and he gets up to make his way down the aisle. He gives me a grateful nod as we pass each other, and I return it. I briefly pause in the aisle and watch as he reaches his family. Khadijah stumbles as she tries to get to her father, but he catches her before she can face-plant and they share a laugh.
I look away from their exchange and continue on to my new seat. An older man sits at the window, and the middle seat has a bag on it, so either it belongs to the guy at the window, or someone else occupies the middle seat.
I suppress the grin fighting to take over my face. I get the aisle seat! I don’t have to shuffle past someone to get to the bathroom, which is infinitely worse than having someone shuffle past me to get there.
The laptop case is covering half of my seat, but I don’t want to move something that’s not mine. I wave at the man in the window seat to get his attention. “Excuse me,” I say in Urdu, and he looks over at me. I point to the bag. “Is this yours?”
“Nehin,” he answers. “There was a man here before, but he went to the bathroom. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
I edge the bag over to the middle seat. I sit down and place my backpack at my feet, then close my eyes, leaning my head back against the rest.
Against all odds, I made it onto the flight. Despite being hours late to the airport, despite someone bumping into me, and despite a seat change, I’m here, on the plane, and ready to take off. I’m going to take that as a win.
“Excuse me?” I hear. “Could you move your legs? I need to get to my seat.”
I open my eyes, and they meet a pair that are so dark brown they’re almost black.
Hai Allah. The Jerk is my new seat partner.
