12 B Aisle Exit Row

        by Carol Sanger

He was well into his third chardonnay when he started 
talking about his dick and donut dollies – 
the women he’d porked in Vietnam. 
He had violated my air space for most of Texas, 
pushing me into the aisle. I had held up my hands to block him, 
made elaborate shows of reading my book, but now 
I looked him straight in the eye and said
in the same voice I use for my dog: Knock it off!

I was physically moving his fat hands from my shoulder, 
pushing this hulking largeness back to the window 
when the steward handed him another drink.
What are you doing? I asked loudly.
The steward looked at the man across the aisle 
who had been enjoying this more than the movie. 
And suddenly I got it.

I am not travelling with him, I said, pointing left
and not him either, pointing right.   Oh, I thought… 
I know what you thought, I said as he walked away, 
his plastic bag bulging and bouncing down the aisle.
Twenty minutes left in the oh-so-slow descent into Tucson.