When a rude passenger refused to remove his bare foot from my armrest, I gave him an unexpected pedicure while he slept. He was furious afterward, never suspecting that we were about to meet again.

Four hours into an overcrowded flight, I felt something warm graze my elbow. I glanced down and found five bare toes stretched across my armrest.

Then I caught the smell.

I twisted in my seat. The passenger behind me was around forty-five, with an expensive watch, headphones over his ears, and his shoes abandoned beneath his seat.

“Excuse me. Could you move your foot?”

He lifted one side of his headphones.

“Let them breathe.”

“It’s not touching you.”

“It’s on my armrest.”

“My feet need to breathe.”

“Then let them breathe in your own seat.”

He gave me a smug little grin. “It’s an airplane. We’re all sharing space.”

He glanced at my other arm, apparently convinced that his comfort mattered more than mine.

“So use your other armrest and don’t bother me.”

He replaced his headphones, wiggled his toes, and I faced forward.

Ten minutes later, turbulence sent his toes brushing my sleeve. I turned back.

“Seriously. Move your foot.”

He let out a dramatic sigh, as though I were the unreasonable one.

“Lady, it’s just a foot. You’re acting like I put it on your dinner plate.”

The woman sitting beside me wrinkled her nose.

“That’s disgusting.”

He chuckled at us both.

“You two need to relax.”

“Okay.”