Miss Innocence and the Pushover​

I was trying to catch up on sleep during the flight when a flight attendant nudged me awake.

“Ma’am, I noticed you didn’t order a meal. Are you feeling unwell?”

I shook my head. “Just tired. I’m going to sleep, no meal for me, thanks.”

But ten minutes later, the same flight attendant woke me up again.

“Are you sure? We have a wide variety of meal options.”

I waved her away. “Please, I just really need to sleep. I’m not eating.”

I’d just managed to drift off again when, through a hazy fog, I found myself staring into the same pair of concerned eyes.

“If you’re not eating, could you please take a moment to fill out this survey and let us know why?” she asked, her voice impossibly cheerful. “And you can’t just check the boxes. The written feedback helps us provide better service in the future.”

1

An all-nighter, then a flight for a business trip.

Tray table down, seatbelt buckled. For a corporate drone like me, the roar of the plane taking off was my sweet lullaby, a personal invitation to dreamland.

This client was a real piece of work. The night before my flight, they were still asking for the impossible—the equivalent of ‘technicolor black.’ Luckily, after a caffeine-fueled marathon, I’d finally delivered something that made them happy.

A three-hour flight isn’t long, but it was just enough for me to get some deep, immersive sleep. To avoid being disturbed during meal service, I had prepared a sticky note while waiting at the gate. I slapped it onto the seatback in front of me.

Bright yellow paper, bold red marker.

“PLEASE DO NOT WAKE ME FOR MEAL SERVICE. THANK YOU.”

Normally, I wouldn't be so extra, but being ripped from a desperately needed sleep is a special kind of torture.

My eyelashes fluttered shut, and I was gone. But before I could even start to drool peacefully, a warm touch on my arm pulled me back. A soft, feminine voice whispered close to my ear.

“Ma’am, what would you like for your meal?”

I waved a weary hand toward the note I’d posted.

But the voice didn’t go away. In fact, it got louder.

“We have the Beef with Broccoli or the Chicken Teriyaki. Which would you prefer?”

“Ma’am? Ma’am?”

Her calls pierced through the fog of my exhaustion. I forced my eyes open. “No, thank you. I’m not eating.”

Forcing a sleep-deprived wage slave to form a coherent sentence is cruel, but I reminded myself that she was just doing her job. One cog in the machine shouldn’t make life harder for another. It’s a golden rule I’ve learned since I started working.

My eyelids felt like lead. I snuggled against the headrest, hoping for a seamless transition back to sleep.

But a second later, her voice was back.

“Are you absolutely sure, ma’am?” she pressed. “The meals on this route get rave reviews online. Lots of influencers have posted about them.”

For God’s sake, was this meal box filled with ambrosia from Mount Olympus? Was it a mortal sin to refuse it?

“Thank you, but I’m really not hungry. I just want to sleep,” I said, my voice strained. “And you don’t ne...