One sock was dangling about four inches from my face.
The other had apparently decided my hair was a drying rack.
I stared at them.
Surely not.
The soles were gray-brown.
I turned around.
The man behind me was barefoot, wearing headphones and scrolling through his phone.
His feet were stretched beneath the seat in front of him.
My seat.
"Excuse me," I said. "Are those your socks?"
The man behind me was barefoot.
He glanced up.
"Obviously."
"Could you take them down?"
"They're wet."
"I can smell that."
"They're wet."
Across the aisle, a woman looked over and wrinkled her nose.
The man shrugged.
"That's why they're there. They need to dry."
"Not beside my head."
"Then lean forward."
"They need to dry."
I blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Lean forward, lady. Problem solved!"
"This is my seat."
