I've been writing/releasing this story in parts, but wanted to provide it in one continuous, flowing text. If reading this way suits you best, bookmark this link! Enjoy, and feel free to leave a question, comment or concern.
--TBB
She was deported. Alone at the airport, no one knew she'd be heading home today, her only hope for a ride into the city sweet-talking some stranger into sharing a cab, later digging fingers into her pocket, frantically faking a search for crumpled dollar bills she knew never existed, hoping a phone number could carry as currency, maybe even end up a coffee she wouldn't have to pay for. Her eyes were tired – time to change the contacts, but with no solution onhand; the economy-sized bottle had been efficient, but couldn't pass through security. This was no time for luxuries, those cost-cutting measures that might save a pretty penny sometime down the line. In a mode to make the moments happen, more than any thought about whether one would matter; consequences were inconsequential - abstractions to be dealt with as they came. A slow blink started the scan, eyelids shuttering the straight-ahead view to sample something on the side, sizing up the immediate surroundings for a bathroom or a bank of telephones, spying the men’s silhouette around the near corner of the waiting area and sighing at the knowledge of a skirted symbol to be found further down the hall. Shoulder bag slung over right arm, she carted the suitcase full of a life left quickly, barrelling down the corridor and avoiding eye contact with anyone who seemed like they might mean well.
She stopped suddenly, a sharp tug jerking her body backwards as the suitcase ground out its forward momentum on a side not normally exposed to the floor, the wheel having reconnected at an angle after an airborne moment due to a knot in the mostly manicured carpet. Still hunched, she brought the right arm across her body, hand connecting with handle and returning her baggage to its original upright position as she gracefully completed the spin around her left shoulder. Dance training had come in handy; one could look as ridiculous as they’d like if you made everyone appreciate exactly how on point the save appeared to eye. (This is the kind of thing she told herself at moments she’d rather occurred less often, and wished someone would occasionally confirm. That would be nice, she was pretty sure. She might even marry the first boy who did. Or least snog him on the spot. He’d totally have earned that much.)
Entering the bathroom, she squared up to the sink and wedged the suitcase against the wall with her leg, subconscious safety mechanisms up and operational as she eyeballed herself in the mirror. This was not a day to have done that. Her hair a frizzy mess, held back with a stretchy purple headband a quarter-inch around but pulling everything off her forehead to the best of its ability, she splashed water on her face, eyes closed as it ran not-quite-cool down cheeks devoid of makeup. She rubbed herself aware, and noticed a blonde boy staring at her reflection. He pointed and laughed, then put his hand in his mouth and ducked to the side, a boxer’s punch-dodging pivot to tuck away embarrassment. His trailing father nearly toppled over him.
“Daddy, why’s that lady in the boys’ room?”
“I don’t know." He looked up. His reflection smiled at hers. "I’m sure it’s just a mistake.” Wide-eyed and frozen, her attention snapped right as a 20-something with a backwards baseball cap exited a stall, leaned over to wash his hands, looked up and said, “Hello.”
“Omygod. Sosorry.”
She scrambled, shouldering the bag and spinning the suitcase for an exit that proved sheepish upon her re-emergence into the hallway. It is bad enough when no one witnesses the wrong-door watusi; she was now responsible for a toddler’s teaching moment and the smirking handwasher. Gross. Re-oriented toward the ladies room, she decided to forgo freshness in favor of the taxi stand. She needed to be somewhere else. A bed would be amazing; she’d settle for a bar. The trick would be finding the former without the latter providing prerequisites.
The line was long. It wound through three turns, spilling past the final poles of stretch vinyl. She settled on a bench nearby, not bothering to sink the handle into the suitcase; she’d need it soon enough. She fumbled through her purse, digging blind for a familiar feel: the worn plastic of a Ziploc baggie containing the crumpled remains of American Spirit tobacco and the rollies she had specially prepared for this instance.
They were crushed. Like her soul.
She huffed, breath expelling the annoyance out of her as she parted the plastic, slid one of the tissue-paper sheets free of its crinkled cardboard cell and set it atop the bag she balanced upon her knees. Her legs were splayed, loose at the ankle, but surprisingly stable at the surface of this temporary thigh tabletop. Locked in on the task at hand, she did not notice the amused eyes observing her process. That is to say: she chose not to, focusing on the results rather than the process, the thought of this sweet cigarette driving an automatic action to completion. The boy could watch all he wanted; his attention, irrelevant.
Sealing the smoke with a tongue lashing along its length, she clenched teeth upon it and absent-mindedly reached for the matches in her lap. The irregular surfaces of every object inside her purse had imprinted themselves upon the surface of the book, creasing an inventory at odd angles and offering little leverage for a user to strike sparks. She gripped the first just below the head, feeling the potential energy at her fingertips, and anticipating the phosphoric explosion about to generate too much heat too close to flesh. A quick flick of the wrist, and her index finger flinched. The match swung clockwise around the pivot of her knuckle, fiery pendulum perilously close to scalding the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger. She let it fall.
The second stick, crunched into thirds, could be propped into some semblance of a straight line. But the head had been scuffed, and there remained no help. Eight feet away, a boy sat atop a red-and-black duffel that had long ago crossed the threshold of reasonable cost-per-use. He allowed his paperback to swing an interior arc; it came to rest open only a sliver, thumb providing a point of reference. She looked up to the overhang’s aged cement, oblivious to his attentions. He waited on the huff. Defeated, her head slumped forward and it came, this forceful sigh of irritable solipsism. She returned to shared existence when she realized the witness, meeting his gaze from underneath her eyelids. He half-waved his off-hand. She forced a smile, looked left for several seconds, then straightened her legs, heels six inches off the ground, extending her arms, palms against the inside of her knees, careful not to upset the contents of her lap as she let a meditative exhale exhaust the stretch. After interminable moments, she loosened up.
He was still staring.
He raised an eyebrow and nodded his chin in the direction of the cigarette she had automatically assimilated into the folds between fingers. She looked. A reflex, but she immediately attempted to recover from embarrassment she didn’t really feel, bringing the hand back between her legs, poised impatiently. She shrugged one shoulder, her head cocking to the side as she offered a tight-lipped smile with a two-brow reply. He had already reached for his lighter. Arm extended, a single flick of the thumb producing a steady flame. Quick pulls set her cigarette ablaze, as he returned the lighter to his pocket. She nodded her way into the inhale, let it out with a few bobs of the head, then held her gaze.
“Thanks,” she said, and smiled.
“No problem. You looked like you could use one.”
“Oh?”
“Anyone exhausted enough to use the wrong bathroom deserves a smoke, I say.”
“Ha.” The tight-lipped smile returned. “Suppose you saw that then.”
“Indeed.”
He smiled.
“I’ve been there. Backpacking.” He gestured to the duffel. He paused. She looked away. He rocked back, then eased forward, pointing at her with the paperback.
“You look arty.”
“That’s a line.”
“It’s an observation.”
“Or a guess.”
He allowed her the point. Flipping the book back up to his face, he resumed reading. She didn’t buy it.
“Good book?”
He shifted it to the side.
“Yup.”
He re-centered the book, leaving a not-inconspicuous sliver of sight-line. She waited, face scrunching when he didn’t follow up. Fine, then. She’d smoke this cigarette and queue up with the rest of the weary masses. Enough dallying. Time to taxi. She gathered up her things.
“Where you headed?”
“Eh?”
“Generally one’s plan isn’t to stay at the airport, unless they’re in a city that isn’t worth exploring.”
“Oh. Yes.” She paused here, as an answer solidified its acceptability. “A friend. I’m visiting a friend. Who’s a boy.”
This last utterance didn’t even fully escape, instead tumbling over the parched crevices of lower lip with progressively less momentum, a fragmented slice of something she wished she’d phrased better, or preferably left altogether unsaid. The repeated rhythm of the first part would have been awful enough, were it not overshadowed by the brutally hollow follow-up. Organs sank atop her stomach, flattening out into one big sheet of embarrassment as the cringe worked its way back up the esophagus. She realized it was again her turn to talk.
“Yeah. Sorry. That was totally awkward.”
“Yup.”
“My situation’s sort of up in the air.”
“Ah.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go.”
“That doesn’t seem likely.”
“No, really. Nowhere. I just got kicked back here and there’s no way I’m letting my parents find out.”
“Quite the rebel.”
“Shutup.”
He smiled, placed the book into his bag as he rose, slung the strap over his shoulder and began to head for the line. After a few steps, he stopped to look back. She had followed him only with her head, everything from the neck down paralyzed in anticipation of a move it wasn’t quite ready to make.
She stopped suddenly, a sharp tug jerking her body backwards as the suitcase ground out its forward momentum on a side not normally exposed to the floor, the wheel having reconnected at an angle after an airborne moment due to a knot in the mostly manicured carpet. Still hunched, she brought the right arm across her body, hand connecting with handle and returning her baggage to its original upright position as she gracefully completed the spin around her left shoulder. Dance training had come in handy; one could look as ridiculous as they’d like if you made everyone appreciate exactly how on point the save appeared to eye. (This is the kind of thing she told herself at moments she’d rather occurred less often, and wished someone would occasionally confirm. That would be nice, she was pretty sure. She might even marry the first boy who did. Or least snog him on the spot. He’d totally have earned that much.)
Entering the bathroom, she squared up to the sink and wedged the suitcase against the wall with her leg, subconscious safety mechanisms up and operational as she eyeballed herself in the mirror. This was not a day to have done that. Her hair a frizzy mess, held back with a stretchy purple headband a quarter-inch around but pulling everything off her forehead to the best of its ability, she splashed water on her face, eyes closed as it ran not-quite-cool down cheeks devoid of makeup. She rubbed herself aware, and noticed a blonde boy staring at her reflection. He pointed and laughed, then put his hand in his mouth and ducked to the side, a boxer’s punch-dodging pivot to tuck away embarrassment. His trailing father nearly toppled over him.
“Daddy, why’s that lady in the boys’ room?”
“I don’t know." He looked up. His reflection smiled at hers. "I’m sure it’s just a mistake.” Wide-eyed and frozen, her attention snapped right as a 20-something with a backwards baseball cap exited a stall, leaned over to wash his hands, looked up and said, “Hello.”
“Omygod. Sosorry.”
She scrambled, shouldering the bag and spinning the suitcase for an exit that proved sheepish upon her re-emergence into the hallway. It is bad enough when no one witnesses the wrong-door watusi; she was now responsible for a toddler’s teaching moment and the smirking handwasher. Gross. Re-oriented toward the ladies room, she decided to forgo freshness in favor of the taxi stand. She needed to be somewhere else. A bed would be amazing; she’d settle for a bar. The trick would be finding the former without the latter providing prerequisites.
The line was long. It wound through three turns, spilling past the final poles of stretch vinyl. She settled on a bench nearby, not bothering to sink the handle into the suitcase; she’d need it soon enough. She fumbled through her purse, digging blind for a familiar feel: the worn plastic of a Ziploc baggie containing the crumpled remains of American Spirit tobacco and the rollies she had specially prepared for this instance.
They were crushed. Like her soul.
She huffed, breath expelling the annoyance out of her as she parted the plastic, slid one of the tissue-paper sheets free of its crinkled cardboard cell and set it atop the bag she balanced upon her knees. Her legs were splayed, loose at the ankle, but surprisingly stable at the surface of this temporary thigh tabletop. Locked in on the task at hand, she did not notice the amused eyes observing her process. That is to say: she chose not to, focusing on the results rather than the process, the thought of this sweet cigarette driving an automatic action to completion. The boy could watch all he wanted; his attention, irrelevant.
Sealing the smoke with a tongue lashing along its length, she clenched teeth upon it and absent-mindedly reached for the matches in her lap. The irregular surfaces of every object inside her purse had imprinted themselves upon the surface of the book, creasing an inventory at odd angles and offering little leverage for a user to strike sparks. She gripped the first just below the head, feeling the potential energy at her fingertips, and anticipating the phosphoric explosion about to generate too much heat too close to flesh. A quick flick of the wrist, and her index finger flinched. The match swung clockwise around the pivot of her knuckle, fiery pendulum perilously close to scalding the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger. She let it fall.
The second stick, crunched into thirds, could be propped into some semblance of a straight line. But the head had been scuffed, and there remained no help. Eight feet away, a boy sat atop a red-and-black duffel that had long ago crossed the threshold of reasonable cost-per-use. He allowed his paperback to swing an interior arc; it came to rest open only a sliver, thumb providing a point of reference. She looked up to the overhang’s aged cement, oblivious to his attentions. He waited on the huff. Defeated, her head slumped forward and it came, this forceful sigh of irritable solipsism. She returned to shared existence when she realized the witness, meeting his gaze from underneath her eyelids. He half-waved his off-hand. She forced a smile, looked left for several seconds, then straightened her legs, heels six inches off the ground, extending her arms, palms against the inside of her knees, careful not to upset the contents of her lap as she let a meditative exhale exhaust the stretch. After interminable moments, she loosened up.
He was still staring.
He raised an eyebrow and nodded his chin in the direction of the cigarette she had automatically assimilated into the folds between fingers. She looked. A reflex, but she immediately attempted to recover from embarrassment she didn’t really feel, bringing the hand back between her legs, poised impatiently. She shrugged one shoulder, her head cocking to the side as she offered a tight-lipped smile with a two-brow reply. He had already reached for his lighter. Arm extended, a single flick of the thumb producing a steady flame. Quick pulls set her cigarette ablaze, as he returned the lighter to his pocket. She nodded her way into the inhale, let it out with a few bobs of the head, then held her gaze.
“Thanks,” she said, and smiled.
“No problem. You looked like you could use one.”
“Oh?”
“Anyone exhausted enough to use the wrong bathroom deserves a smoke, I say.”
“Ha.” The tight-lipped smile returned. “Suppose you saw that then.”
“Indeed.”
He smiled.
“I’ve been there. Backpacking.” He gestured to the duffel. He paused. She looked away. He rocked back, then eased forward, pointing at her with the paperback.
“You look arty.”
“That’s a line.”
“It’s an observation.”
“Or a guess.”
He allowed her the point. Flipping the book back up to his face, he resumed reading. She didn’t buy it.
“Good book?”
He shifted it to the side.
“Yup.”
He re-centered the book, leaving a not-inconspicuous sliver of sight-line. She waited, face scrunching when he didn’t follow up. Fine, then. She’d smoke this cigarette and queue up with the rest of the weary masses. Enough dallying. Time to taxi. She gathered up her things.
“Where you headed?”
“Eh?”
“Generally one’s plan isn’t to stay at the airport, unless they’re in a city that isn’t worth exploring.”
“Oh. Yes.” She paused here, as an answer solidified its acceptability. “A friend. I’m visiting a friend. Who’s a boy.”
This last utterance didn’t even fully escape, instead tumbling over the parched crevices of lower lip with progressively less momentum, a fragmented slice of something she wished she’d phrased better, or preferably left altogether unsaid. The repeated rhythm of the first part would have been awful enough, were it not overshadowed by the brutally hollow follow-up. Organs sank atop her stomach, flattening out into one big sheet of embarrassment as the cringe worked its way back up the esophagus. She realized it was again her turn to talk.
“Yeah. Sorry. That was totally awkward.”
“Yup.”
“My situation’s sort of up in the air.”
“Ah.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go.”
“That doesn’t seem likely.”
“No, really. Nowhere. I just got kicked back here and there’s no way I’m letting my parents find out.”
“Quite the rebel.”
“Shutup.”
He smiled, placed the book into his bag as he rose, slung the strap over his shoulder and began to head for the line. After a few steps, he stopped to look back. She had followed him only with her head, everything from the neck down paralyzed in anticipation of a move it wasn’t quite ready to make.
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