Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, a man waits for a lavatory. Uninvited, the barest inklings of impatience have made their pointless arrival. All the same, he participates willingly and good-naturedly in the unspoken society of long plane flights, and is ready with a smile for the feaser of the protracted occupation. His need is not urgent. He has come here more for a reason to stretch his legs than for anything contained in the restroom. His thoughts have so far drifted pleasantly. He paces a little in the space provided by the emergency-exit row.

With businesslike alacrity, a second man, ignorant of the first, has just arrived on the scene from somewhere else in the plane. It is night, whatever that means in these hurtling confines over the Pacific Ocean, and the lights are off to allow passengers to sleep. As nonchalantly quick as he came, the second man opens the lavatory door and slips inside, closing the door behind him. He does not so much as glance at the first man, who is stunned for a short time. Realizing what has happened, the first man glances furtively about to see if anyone has witnessed the silly injustice.

A third man, farthest over on the emergency-exit row, is the only one to have seen, and now sees the man's glance and divines the meaning of the glance; but the first man fails to turn far enough to make eye contact with the third man, and thus will spend the rest of his life believing that no one had seen what just happened. Although he will be reminded of this trivial incident once in a great while, he will never mention it.

The third man believes the first man's movements betray certain emotions in small quantities tempered by acceptance: indignation, shame, annoyance. It is an accurate perception. The third man turns back to his movie, glancing up occasionally. The first man continues to wait.

Second draft