Abroad

The old man’s suitcase was having none of it. She smiled slightly, trying her best to reassure its wrinkled figure that no unfortunate miscreant was lurking in wait of its corner. Now, she thought towards its sagging eye; hanging jowl, you might find a hand ready to rob you, but I should think your corner is safe. It continued to glower, and her nose wrinkled as she sniffed the air. You’re going to set my head aflame with those angry looks of yours, she thought at it. Hairspray is quite flammable. The luggage harrumphed as the train lurched ungracefully. You would know, it seemed to say. If it had had an eyebrow, the girl thought, it might have been raised. I can smell it from over here. The old man in possession of the suitcase drew it closer to his side, surely seeing the girl’s eye fixed so intensely upon it. She scowled and looked away. This was her company, now. These were the only interactions she could manage, setting aside thoughts of ticket-girls and the man who leered nastily as she rushed by in her rumpled state. She was reduced to conversing with inanimate objects. Train luggage, of all things! She let her head loll back against the wall, closing her eyes in a brief moment of silence for what her life had turned into. The train slowed, then jerked to a stop. She stepped off, throwing one last look of contempt over her shoulder at the offending baggage.

…

Oxford had been her plan for as long as she could remember. Academics had been the equivalent of a one-way ticket. A necessary stop. She would never have gotten through school without traveling as a motivator. There was a permanent knot on the third finger of her right hand, number-two pencils not letting her escape from their grasp so quickly after she had completed her studies. It was ironic, she thought, because it had been her that had held them captive for so long. Involuntarily, but true, nonetheless. God, how she hated their abrasive, scratching whine. For years it had been on constant replay, the lead-that-was-really-graphite grating on her nerves until she felt as if she might don a ruffled nightcap and take to complaining to one bespectacled Mr. Bennet. The day she had thrown that oddly shaped hat to the wind after receiving a glorified but glorious piece of embellished paper, she had packed her bags and left for the airport.

…

The honey hues of the gate agent’s highlights had blurred as the girl tried her best to focus through her delirious and sleep-deprived state. If she were the superstitious type, she would no doubt have left ages ago. She was marooned in Colorado, forced to watch longingly as scores of other, luckier patrons were ushered aboard various species of mammoth aircraft. Her eyes closed, overwhelmed by the tidal wave of utter exhaustion that threatened to take her over. Miss? She gave the agent her card, remembering a similar action earlier that morning. It was close to noon, now, and she eyed a coffee shop on the other side of the gate hungrily, her body anxious for the shot of liquid energy she was in desperate need of. Her last flight had gotten her this far; but she had found, much to her chagrin, that she was not intended to go farther until the next day. A bachelor’s in mathematics had crumpled in its beveled walnut frame when she discovered she had, indeed, miscalculated her flight schedule. She’d spent the night at a cheap hotel, tossing in a small, white bed after checking it thoroughly for the telltale apple-seed-like bug between the sheets. Her daydreams consisted of espresso.

…

Turbulence. It was her one vice. Airplanes were fine. Airplanes were man’s greatest achievement. Turbulence, however, was sure to prove fatal. She dug her nails into the plush cushion of timeworn blue leather that was her economy-class seat, clenching shut her eyes. She opened them. Across the aisle, a bald man in a suit had covered the top half of his face with a sleep mask. At least those with a fear of heights had the option to cover their eyes, she thought. No one can escape turbulence. You can’t block that out. She turned her nose toward the window. The woman next to her had inhaled a bag of Cheetos about an hour before and reeked especially of methane. The plane began to jolt suddenly, and her nails went deeper into the cushion.

…

The train station was akin to a jungle. This was her first thought. Everywhere, people in varying stages of hurry were rushing to their next mode of transportation. A man in what looked suspiciously like a chestnut wig flew by with a hand atop his head, dragging a green-and-orange wheeled suitcase behind him with his other like an unruly pet. She sighted another sat on the ground, staring intently at the tiles that made up the floor. He looked up when he noticed her, drawing his lips back in an ugly sneer. The girl’s index and middle fingers came up to grip both sides of the bridge of her nose. She drew in one, two deep breaths and prepared to join the fray.

…

Thank God for the mirror. The train’s small bathroom didn’t house much else besides the necessities. The girl was glad someone had decided this included the mirror she faced now. Her hair tie was yanked from its position near the top of her scalp, and she secured it once more near her nape after raking a hand through its tangled length. She winced. Her hair refused to hold shape; her roots were greasy in patches, plastering themselves to her head. Traveling had taken its toll. She removed the tie a third time and proceeded to gather her hair for a bun instead, procuring a travel-sized bottle of hairspray from her bag to keep it in place. She had no wish to manifest a founding father. The door banged loudly when she exited; a troubled suitcase furrowed its hairless brow when she took her seat.