But for now, I am going to lie here, listen to the hum of the engines, and pretend that this is just how I live.

When the cart comes, it is not a cart. It is a tablecloth. Sylvie sets a miniature salt cellar and a pepper grinder next to my plate. The salmon is not dry. The salad is not warm. There is an actual fork, heavy and cold, not a spork made of biodegradable sadness.

Here is the thing they don't tell you about first class: it is incredibly quiet. Not just in volume, but in anxiety. Nobody is checking their boarding pass to make sure they are in the right seat. Nobody is doing the math on whether they can afford a $9 beer. There is a strange, unspoken treaty up here: We have all made it. Let us simply exist.