I know it’s not your fault.

The delay of an airplane is a maddening experience. Rightfully so, promises are cleaved and timing is all but destroyed. Passengers arise, soon to build their own French barricade, and the riot indeed begins. It starts with a queue. Limited civility. People will give more patience, than ever owed or expected, to have a turn to berate. There is only one target. The stewardess. She has no camouflage, she is easy to find. Greasy elbows lean into the counter, and pulsing forehead veins rise and fall in aggravation. She is a monolith. She stands tall! “I know it’s not your fault…” Play it again, she says. They, crashing water, and she, steadfast stone. Having exhausted their resources, they turn to their chairs. Full retreat.

Revolutions do not catch fire in the sky harbor. Long live the stewardess.