I am a woman of a certain age, age uncertain. Probably at least forty, and not more than two hundred. And I have launched a new career as a character. This is actually Dan’s fault. I mean, how many husbands do you know that would take their wives with them across the continent to San Francisco and then accept an upgrade to first class, leaving their wives in coach?

This turns out to be one of those glorious flights where the coach cabin is half empty. When the seatbelt light goes out, I upgrade myself to a row of seats all to myself. Along with two sets of pillows and blankets. The only problem is that my new row doesn’t have electricity. So I make the acquaintance of the nice young computerless man in the seat behind me, who kindly agrees to allow me to pirate electricity from his socket. All set, I snuggle myself against the window with legs outstretched and my computer in my lap.

The flight attendant comes by with drinks, and I buy a bottle of chardonnay. Arthritis strikes. With my weak fingers, I can’t open the bottle, and he has to do it for me. The chardonnay is undrinkably sweet. When the flight attendant comes by again, I apologetically ask if I could exchange it for something else even though I’ve already opened it. He agrees readily, brings out a bottle of shiraz with a flourish, and twists it open for me. Sweet! (The flight attendant, not the wine.)

But I let down my guard and sit upright while looking through the magazine. A young man asks if he could use the aisle seat to watch the movie, since the sound isn’t working at his seat. “Of course,” I say, wondering at my own magnanimity. “Are you sure?” he asks, hesitant to disrupt a woman of a certain age. Ah, young men. They are just so cute. “Yes, absolutely, I insist.”

The movie, it turns out, is made from a book that I have just borrowed on CD from the library and intend to listen to next on my list. He has read it. He loved it. I’m really happy to hear this. We settle in, he to his movie, I to my computer.

I receive a guilty visit from my first-class husband. I assure him I’m very happy here, and it’s true. My poor aisle-mate offers to move, but I insist he stay. Who is this person inhabiting my body?

Later, I go to the back of the plane to ask my flight attendant if I would be allowed to visit my husband up in first class, and he assures me that I may. So, hey, I do. Seeing me pass by, my aisle-mate starts to get up, but I wave him back to his seat and head up to the front of the plane. There I chat with Dan and his colleague. First is full. They had a big meal, but we had already eaten dinner at the airport. Who needs another meal? As I stand and chat, the first-class flight attendant comes by with chocolates. Dan and his colleague offer me theirs, and I accept. I can tell I have psychic power over them. I ask Dan for his bottle of water as well, and he gives it to me.

Life is good. As I pass down the aisle, my aisle-mate starts to stand, but I wave him back to his seat as I walk to the back of the plane. My flight attendant is reading a magazine. I ask if I might have another bottle of Shiraz, but apologetically, as he’ll have to come back to my seat with me, where I’ve left all my money. “Don’t worry,” he tells me, and hands me a bottle of wine. This is what happens when you have what just could be the world’s nicest flight attendant who also knows that your husband is traveling first class while you’re back here in steerage.

I go back to my seat. I give away my first-class chocolates to my movie-watching aisle-mate and my electricity pusher. I drink the wine. The movie ends and I get my row back. I stretch out. Life is getting better all the time. I don’t think I’ve had a better flight since I figured out how to get the Transpacific first-class upgrade from Los Angeles to Sydney and back again on Qantas—and that was maybe fourteen years ago, when I had just turned twenty-one.

It’s almost midnight, and my wonderful flight attendant has just brought me another free bottle of wine. Back here in steerage, we know how to live. They can’t possibly be having this fine a time in first class. There’s something to be said for style.

Postscript: Dan has come by with a chocolate-chip cookie, still warm from the first-class ovens (the cookie, not Dan). The flight attendant has come by with yet another free bottle of wine. I’ve assured Dan that if I got any luckier I’d win the lottery even without a ticket. I don’t want him to feel guilty, for heaven’s sake. Life is way too good for that!