Fine Dining On Air France

We are monopolized by the Saran-wrapped food, the plastic cutlery; absorbed by the clutter of the crowded food tray. Numbed by hours of jiggling, the carting of torpid bodies through interminable distance, we’re wedged now into boredom. Anesthetized – we fear nothing. If the aircraft stalls, few will scream. We’ll keep decanting small bottles of vin de table. We must butter those buns. As the aircraft plummets earthward, we’ll continue to struggle with condiment sachets, coffee creamers, with small molded cruets.