But today, an upgrade fairy waved her wand. Or maybe the algorithm finally pitied me. Either way, I am sitting in 2A.
The flight attendant—her name is Sylvie, according to the tiny gold pin on her blazer—remembers my preference. She doesn’t ask if I want champagne. She simply places a glass of Billecart-Salmon on the burled walnut tray and says, "Welcome back, Mr. H."
I don’t belong here.
But for now, I am going to lie here, listen to the hum of the engines, and pretend that this is just how I live.
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