On a flight home with my husband, Mark, a thoughtless woman kept her feet on his seat, ignoring our polite requests to stop. Fed up, I took a sneaky approach that taught her a lesson and still makes me smile. After a week visiting Mark’s family, we were eager to get home. “I can’t wait for our cozy bed,” I said, settling into our plane seats. Mark grinned. “I’m dreaming of our shower’s water pressure.” Everything seemed set for a calm flight. As the plane’s engines hummed, I leaned back, ready to nap. But then I noticed her—the woman behind us had her bare feet propped up on Mark’s seat, kicking it as she chatted loudly with her friend.

I nudged Mark, hoping he’d handle it. He’s patient, but even he looked annoyed. “Excuse me,” he said, turning around. “Could you take your feet off my seat?” She glanced at him, laughed with her friend, and ignored him. During the safety briefing, she sat properly, but soon her feet were back, nudging Mark’s seat. “Please,” he said, firmer. “It’s really bothersome.” She rolled her eyes, unbothered. Mark’s jaw tightened, and I knew this flight would be rough. “Go get a flight attendant,” I whispered, trying to stay calm. I’m known for my petty streak, and Mark knew I was close to acting on it.

He returned with a stern flight attendant who spoke to the woman. She grudgingly lowered her feet, but the moment the attendant left, they were back up. I was done. When the drink cart rolled by, I saw my chance. “I’ll have a soda,” Mark said. “Water for me,” I added, unscrewing the cap with a grin. “What’s that look?” Mark asked. “Just watch,” I said. I leaned back and “accidentally” spilled water onto her bag under Mark’s seat, soaking it. She didn’t notice—yet. Then I grabbed Mark’s soda. “I know what’s coming,” he chuckled. I reached through the armrest and poured it onto her feet. “Ugh!” she yelped, yanking them back, nearly hitting her friend.

“Did you spill that?” she snapped, grabbing my arm. I turned, all innocence. “Oh, sorry! The plane must’ve jolted.” She muttered but backed off, grumbling to her friend about how rude I was. “She’s so tacky,” she said. “Spilling soda on me!” Her friend replied, “She could’ve just asked nicely.” I smirked, overhearing their complaints about paying for the flight and deserving comfort. When the food cart came, she shifted and kicked Mark’s seat again. “Sorry!” she said quickly. “I don’t want food on my feet.” Mark laughed, squeezing my hand. Her feet stayed down for the rest of the flight.

She glared at me occasionally, but I smiled sweetly. As we descended, she grabbed her wet bag, her face reddening. I gave her a tiny nod and looked away. “Shower first,” Mark said as we landed. “Then bed.” I agreed, feeling satisfied. As we left the plane, she stormed past, muttering. We took our time, strolling through the terminal, Mark’s arm around me. “That was classic you,” he said, laughing. “Sometimes you need a little mischief to make a point,” I replied. That small act of revenge felt just right, reminding me that standing up for respect can be oh-so-sweet.