Get your black ass out of my seat, boy. Karen Whitmore’s manicured nails dug into Marcus Washington’s shoulder as she yanked him upward. His coffee spilled across the Wall Street Journal. Hot liquid splashed his jeans. She shoved him into the aisle and dropped into seat 1A like conquering territory. That’s better.
Karen smoothed her Chanel skirt, claiming his armrest. Some people forget where they belong. Marcus stood hunched under the low cabin ceiling. His plain hoodie and faded jeans screamed economy class. Her diamond bracelet caught first class lighting as she adjusted herself in his warm leather seat. Phones lifted around them. A teenager went live on Tik Tok.
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