I went to Georgia for work Wednesday and Thursday. On the flight back to Chicago, I got a window seat. (Yay!) In the seat next to me was a hugely burly bro-dude. (Nooo!)
To give you an idea, he looked rather like the soap guys from Hyperbole and a Half. Except in a hot pink polo and a "vintage" baseball hat.
His muscles kind of hulked into my personal space, so it was a pretty cozy flight. He was also super-embarrassed about it and not unintelligent, so we were cool. I decided if our knees were going to touch even when we were both trying hard to not let our knees touch, I may as well just relax.
Travelling can make for strange knee-fellows.
All was well until the woman sitting behind me asked her seatmate the distance from the airport to the suburb where I live. I turned, apologized for accidentally overhearing, and answered. She looked at me like I was wearing a horse mask and had invited her into my rusty, windowless white van.
I lurched around and tried to fall out the bottom of the plane, but that doesn't even work in really terrible romance novels.
Bro-Dude the Hulk leaned over.
"If you hadn't answered her, I would have."
Muscle on, Bro-Dude, my friend. Muscle on.
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