When she sat down, she turned on the fan. I was mildly surprised, given her short sleeves. But probably she was hurrying to get to the gate, carrying luggage, and was warm from the exertion.
An airplane is such a strange place. I sit inches from this girl, and we haven't exchanged words. We politely make an effort not to accidentally touch.
I am feeling a bit chilly. Not cold, but a little chilled. Not a big deal, but I prefer to be warmer when I have a choice. My seat fan is not on, but my neighbor's fan blows onto her seat, and my shoulder right next to her can feel the air.
I steal a glance at her. She is asleep, sitting upright with her arms crossed and her jaw relaxed, mouth open. I always hate it when I catch myself with my mouth hanging open like that, as I think it must be unflattering. It doesn't look all that bad.
I contemplate turing off her fan. After all in just a t-shirt, surely she doesn't want it any longer. I rationalize it to myself: she is just sleeping, so she hasn't been alert enough to turn it off. Then I picture her waking up, too warm, and wondering why her fan is off.
I discretely look her over, deciding that if I can see goosebumps on her bare arms then I am justified in turning it off. There are no bumps. She must not be cold.
Briefly I wonder how that can be, that she in her short sleeves can be comfortable with air on her skin, while I in my sweatshirt am chilled. I also fret briefly about the fact that I have left my scarf at home. Then I shrug internally and pull out my library book. Nothing can be done about any of it now; time to read the flight away.