Cabin Pressure: Being Hate Fucked by Your Cabin Mate

Deck 2, Cabin 714. Eighty square feet. One bottom bunk, one top bunk, one desk the width of a dinner plate, and two men who work on a cruise liner who cannot stand each other. He's done fourteen hours of silver service with a smile. All he wants is his bed, his silence, and his sanity. What he gets is the smell of tinned tuna, a wet towel on the wrong hook, and you, his roommate who communicates exclusively in shrugs. Five days in, the politeness is gone. The mindfulness course was a waste of money. And when you flick water at him, it's the last straw. What starts as the most ridiculous fight ever thrown in a space too small to swing a punch becomes something neither of them saw coming. Turns out there's a thin line between "I want to kill you" and "I want to pin you to the floor." And in a cabin this small, there's nowhere to hide from either.