The company, in their infinite stinginess, booked me in economy. Of course they did.
Because apparently, they expect emotionally unstable travel bloggers to fly across the Atlantic wedged between two strangers eating tuna sandwiches and coughing into the shared air like we’re not already one bad day away from a full breakdown.
I’m standing at the gate in JFK, staring at my boarding pass like it personally offended me. Seat 34B. Middle seat.
No window, no dignity.
This was supposed to be a new beginning. A work trip. A distraction. A post-Monty, post-Axton recovery mission.
I had even planned the aesthetic: a red-eye flight to London, face mask on, champagne in hand, dramatic lighting while Lana Del Rey plays softly in my noise-canceling headphones.
But apparently, the only thing I’m
