The Almost-Stranger Who Told Me I’m Guarded

[Listen to an audio version of this blog here.]

“Are you first class?” a man asked me at gate 42 in terminal A at the Atlanta airport. I was mildly amused that he looked at me and even for a second thought that I’d be flying first class, with my disheveled top bun and wrinkly red sweater. “Definitely not,” I answered, sweeping my arm in front of me, “Be my guest.”