Trespass

Seats belts fastened. Tray tables and chairs in their up-right and locked positions. Electronic devices turned off. Mouths shut and not uttering one more word. No, she forgets that last sentence. The oversight marks doom for someone like me who has a history of excessive talking, especially about favorite subjects. (Like books: The Razor's Edge is not on my list, but The Wind-up Bird Chronicle was remarkable. Or, brandy: give your hosts a French one from Armagnac. Expensive, but worth it.) Multiple teachers told my parents that "your daughter is a delight to have in class, if only she could shut up," as they handed them report cards with A's in reading and writing. The flight attendant walks down the isle and stops at 12C. For a moment I spy a yardstick behind her back, but that's because she resembles my kindergarten teacher. Wielding a wooden rod, Mrs. Henderson's wrist could flip from zero to sixty in less than three seconds, bopping me on the head more than once a day. My current instructor says "no one around you could hear the safety information." I want to act self-righteous and explain myself. I say loudly to the people around me that I will step aside and exit last if there's an emergency. They express sympathy for me and my never-to-be-seen-again conversation conspirator sitting across the isle in 12D. But I refuse this support and acknowledge our authority. "It's good to be reminded even if we've heard it before," I say. "Thank you dear," she replies. Later she gives me extra pretzels and a book recommendation.