ht attendant. My plan was simpler and, in my opinion, much more poetic.
I reached into my bag and pulled out my paperback copy of Dune. It’s a thick book, with a solid, weighty feel. With the utmost care, I picked up a single lock of her hair, the one that lay directly across my screen, and placed it on my tray table. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, I set my book squarely on top of it.
I didn’t slam it down or make a point of the action. It was a gentle, almost surgical placement. The book simply rested there, a heavy, silent declaration of my personal space.
The girl, engrossed in her phone, didn’t react at first. But a minute later, she must have felt the slight tension on her scalp. She tried to shift her head, but her hair was now anchored. A look of confusion crossed her face as she gave a small, frustrated tug. The book didn’t budge.
She finally turned around, a scowl on her face, and saw the sight: a thick science-fiction novel sitting peacefully on her hair. My gaze met hers. I didn’t smile. I didn’t say a word. I simply looked back at my screen, pretending to be utterly captivated by the movie I was watching.
