En route to Bali

He smelled like an ashtray and I was in the next seat. Sweat slowly seeped out of his skin. He hadn’t slept, his face flushed of life, dilated pupils from coffee and nicotine for pheromones. I had to stay still for six hours because the stench was penetratingly awful. Two rows ahead where there was leg room, a young mum and her hippie boyfriend were looking after a toddler, which was actually fine. The mum however had a preamp attached to her vocal cords because her voice projected like a concert speaker. Even when she was trying to be discreet, her audible level was that of a quiet shout. It’s as if she was made to yell at small children and public parking attendants. I’m glad I’m off that plane.

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