While you check balances, I check into lounges. I glide from one luxury to another – because of you, never for you.
You hold your breath at the terminal, anxiously refreshing apps, watching the number dip lower and lower. I don’t. I never do. My ticket is confirmed. My upgrades are automatic. My seat is already assigned.
I don’t queue. I’m escorted. Through private lanes, past your kind – fumbling with passports and battered wallets. My bags roll behind me, silent and sleek, as I head toward champagne, not security. While you rehearse apologies to your bank’s fraud department, I’m already sipping something cold and expensive, smiling at a lounge attendant who knows my name. You paid for that glass, you know. For the view. For the soft lighting. For the almond-scented hand cream in the designer bathroom. You’ll never smell it. But you did pay.
And then – boarding. Not a crush of passengers. Not a scramble. Just a soft announcement. My heels echo on polished floors as I float forward. Your overdraft funded the slippers in my suite. Your rent covered the cashmere throw. Your missed car payment bought my mid-air massage.
You may not be beside me, but you are always with me. In the numbers. In the receipts. In the little luxuries tucked between time zones and turn-down service. Your desperation is the undercurrent of my ease.You’ll never know the exact view I saw at 38,000 feet. But you’ll see the charge.
And you’ll pay it.
Again.