Each time I shifted in my seat, I smelled something sour. I tried to dismiss it as a run-of-the-mill other-people-sweat smell but eventually had to admit it was urine.
Was it on my shoes? On the coat of the guy seated in front of me? The woman two seats over? I sniffed my arm, my hands, my knee — I sniffed my knee during an IMAX showing of Interstellar. Getting no closer to identifying the source, I leaned over and whispered to my brother-in-law. “Dude, do you smell periodic waves of piss?” He squinted, shrugged and smiled — he didn’t hear me.