Fine Dining On Air France

We’re monopolized by the Saran-wrapped food, the plastic cutlery, absorbed by the clutter of the food tray. Numbed by hours of jiggling, the carting of torpid bodies through interminable distance, we’re wedged now into boredom, uncomfortably numb. Anesthetized – we fear nothing. If the aircraft stalls, few will scream. We’ll keep decanting small bottles of vin de table, butter buns. As the aircraft plummets and drops like a stone to certain death we’ll still be struggling with condiment sachets, coffee creamers, with small, molded cruets oblivious now to anything less important.