On the flight to Raleigh, I sneezed, and the cough drop I’d been sucking on shot from my mouth, ricocheted off my folded tray table, and landed, as I remember it, in the lap of the woman beside me, who was asleep and had her arms folded across her chest. I’m surprised that the force didn’t wake her—that’s how hard it hit—but all she did was flutter her eyelids and let out a tiny sigh, the kind you might hear from a baby.

Under normal circumstances, I’d have had three choices, the first being to do nothing. The woman would wake up in her own time, and notice what looked like a shiny new button sewn to the crotch of her jeans. This was a small plane, with one seat per row on Aisle A, and two seats per row on Aisle B. We were on B, so should she go searching for answers I would be the first person on her list. “Is this yours?” she’d ask, and I’d look dumbly into her lap.

“Is what mine?”

Option No. 2 was to reach over and pluck it from her pants, and No. 3 was to wake her up and turn the tables, saying, “I’m sorry, but I think you have something that belongs to me.” Then she’d hand the lozenge back and maybe even apologize, confused into thinking that she’d somehow stolen it.

These circumstances, however, were not normal, as before she’d fallen asleep the woman and I had had a fight. I’d known her for only an hour, yet I felt her hatred just as strongly as I felt the stream of cold air blowing into my face—this after she’d repositioned the nozzle above her head, a final fuck-you before settling down for her nap.

The odd thing was that she hadn’t looked like trouble. I’d stood behind her while boarding and she was just this woman—forty at most—wearing a T-shirt and cutoff jeans. Her hair was brown, and fell to her shoulders, and as we waited she gathered it into a ponytail and fastened it with an elastic band. There was a man beside her, who was around the same age and was also wearing shorts, though his were hemmed. He was skimming through a golf magazine, and I guessed correctly that the two of them were embarking on a vacation. While on the gangway, the woman mentioned a rental car, and wondered if the beach cottage was far from a grocery store. She was clearly looking forward to her trip, and I found myself hoping that, whichever beach they were going to, the grocery store wouldn’t be too far away. It was just one of those things that go through your mind. Best of luck, I thought.

Once on board, I realized that the woman and I would be sitting next to one another, which was fine. I took my place on the aisle, and within a minute she excused herself and walked a few rows up to talk to the man with the golf magazine. He was at the front of the cabin, in a single bulkhead seat, and I recall feeling sorry for him, because I hate the bulkhead. Tall people covet it, but I prefer as little leg room as possible. When I’m on a plane or in a movie theatre, I like to slouch down as low as I can, and rest my knees on the seat back in front of me. In the bulkhead, there is no seat in front of you, just a wall a good three feet away, and I never know what to do with my legs. Another drawback is that you have to stow all of your belongings in the overhead compartment, and these are usually full by the time I board. All in all, I’d rather hang from one of the wheels than have to sit up front.

When they announced our departure, the woman returned to her seat, and hovered a half foot off the cushion, so she could continue her conversation with the man she’d been talking to earlier. I wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying, but I believe I heard him refer to her as Becky, a wholesome name that matched her contagious, almost childlike enthusiasm.

The plane took off and everything was as it should be until the woman touched my arm, and pointed to the man she’d been talking to earlier. “Hey,” she said, “see that guy up there?” Then she called out his name—Eric, I think—and the man turned and waved. “That’s my husband, see, and I’m wondering if you could maybe swap seats so that me and him could sit together.”

“Well, actually—” I said, and before I could finish her face hardened, and she interrupted me, saying, “What? You have a problem with that?”

“Well,” I said, “ordinarily I’d be happy to move, but he’s in the bulkhead, and I just hate that seat.”

“He’s in the what?”

“The bulkhead,” I explained. “That’s what you call that front row.”

“Listen,” she said, “I’m not asking you to switch because it’s a bad seat. I’m asking you to switch because we’re married.” She pointed to her wedding ring, and when I leaned in closer to get a better look at it she drew back her hand, saying, “Oh, never mind. Just forget it.”

It was as if she had slammed a door in my face, and quite unfairly, it seemed to me. I should have left well enough alone, but instead I tried to reason with her. “It’s only a ninety-minute flight,” I said, suggesting that in the great scheme of things it wasn’t that long to be separated from your husband. “I mean, what, is he going to prison the moment we land in Raleigh?”

“No, he’s not going to prison,” she said, and on the last word she lifted her voice, mocking me.

“Look,” I told her, “if he was a child I’d do it.” And she cut me off saying, “Whatever.” Then she rolled her eyes and glared out the window.

The woman had decided that I was a hard-ass, one of those guys who refuse under any circumstances to do anyone a favor. But it’s not true. I just prefer that the favor be my idea, that it leaves me feeling kind rather than bullied and uncomfortable. So, no. Let her sulk, I decided.

Eric had stopped waving, and signalled for me to get Becky’s attention. “My wife,” he mouthed. “Get my wife.”

There was no way out, and so I tapped the woman on the shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, as if I had thrown a punch.

“Your husband wants you.”

“Well, that doesn’t give you the right to touch me.” Becky unbuckled her seat belt, raised herself off the cushion, and spoke to Eric in a loud stage whisper: “I asked him to swap seats, but he won’t do it.”

He cocked his head, sign language for “How come?,” and she said, much louder than she needed to, “ ’Cause he’s an asshole, that’s why.”

An elderly woman across the aisle turned to look at me, and I pulled a Times crossword puzzle from the bag beneath my seat. That always makes you look reasonable, especially on a Saturday, when the words are long and the clues are exceptionally tough. The problem is that you have to concentrate, and all I could think of was this woman.

Seventeen across. A fifteen-letter word for enlightenment. “I am not an asshole,” I wrote, and it fit.

Five down. Six-letter Indian tribe. “You are*.*”

Look at the smart man, breezing through the puzzle, I imagined everyone thinking. He must be a genius. That’s why he wouldn’t swap seats for that poor married woman. He knows something we don’t.

It’s pathetic how much significance I attach to the Times puzzle, which is easy on Monday and gets progressively harder as the week advances. I’ll spend fourteen hours finishing the Friday, and then I’ll wave it in someone’s face and demand that they acknowledge my superior intelligence. I think it means that I’m smarter than the next guy, but all it really means is that I don’t have a life.

As I turned to my puzzle, Becky reached for a paperback novel, the kind with an embossed cover. I strained to see what the title was, and she jerked it closer to the window. Strange how that happens, how you can feel someone’s eyes on your book or magazine as surely as you can feel a touch. It only works for the written word, though. I stared at her feet for a good five minutes, and she never jerked those away. After our fight, she’d removed her sneakers, and I saw that her toenails were painted white, and that each one was perfectly sculpted.

Eighteen across: “Not impressed.”

Eleven down: “Whore.”

I wasn’t even looking at the clues anymore.

When the drink cart came, we fought through the flight attendant.

“What can I offer you folks?” she asked, and Becky threw down her book saying, “We’re not together.” It killed her that we might be mistaken for a couple, or even friends. “I’m travelling with my husband,” she continued. “He’s sitting up there. In the bulkhead.”

You learned that word from me, I thought.

“Well, can I offer—”

“I’ll have a Coke,” Becky said. “Not much ice.”

I was thirsty, too, but more than a drink I wanted the flight attendant to like me. And who would you prefer, the finicky baby who cuts you off and gets all specific about her ice cubes, or the thoughtful, nondemanding gentleman who smiles up from his difficult Saturday puzzle saying, “Nothing for me, thank you”?