The woman in the window seat was in her forties.
She was not in her window seat.
She had raised the armrest between the window seat and the middle seat, the armrest that existed to define the boundary between two paid spaces.
She had spread herself across both.
Her bag was on the seat.
Her jacket was on the seat.
She was, without apparent awareness of anyone else’s existence, using a space she had not paid for.
I said, as pleasantly as I could: excuse me. That’s my grandmother’s seat.
The woman did not look up from her phone.
She said: I’m comfortable like this.
I said: she has arthritis. She needs to be able to sit properly.
Still not looking up.
She said: I paid for my ticket. It’s not my problem if she needs extra space.
A flight attendant had appeared.
The flight attendant was young, professional, the specific professional of someone who has managed many variations of this situation.
