One of her bags lay unpacked on the thin carpet, covering the dirty orange tiles. Breakable items - gifts mainly - carefully wrapped in plastic bags and mismatched socks, surrounded the luggage, like trembling acolytes. Certainly, not worth enough for customs to bother with.

She should have just packed the bag, no matter how lumpy or imperfect the end result was. But she let it remain unfinished - like so many other things in her life - savoring the fact that here was one last little thing to do, saved for that unbearable moment of loneliness, which would surely come when every other distraction had worn thin.

Another move. Another shift. Another break from the patterns she had lovingly formed. Five moves in one year, and three months of traveling lay behind her - Florence, Rome, Pisa - she had seen it all. Admired the David amidst a throng of obnoxious Americans; soaked in the Vatican along with a neck cramp; climbed a fence to get a picture of the Leaning Tower at night. Oh, she had enjoyed it immensely; tried to live for each present moment, turning a blind eye to the future and fighting off the past. But the result was not favorable tonight. Tonight she did not want to live for the present, for the empty room, indifferent to its occupant.

She glanced at her watch. Seven fifty-six. Nine more hours.

Voices cried up and down the halls. Next door someone knocked. Feet stomped above, dancing to a clandestine tune from home.

Well, their home anyway.

She had gotten a little tipsy last night. Strong wine in a plastic cup. Two cups. Sitting on the floor wanting to sleep, with that damn unpacked bag at her feet. But no, she had let the wine wear off, sorted paper, and roused herself to packing.

She laughed. She was too sensible even to get properly drunk.

Nine more hours.

Nights like these she usually stayed up: the better to sleep in the plane, my dear. But nine hours creep by slowly when one dreads the future and can't hold the past. Playing cards packed away; one chapter in her book; blank paper in a folder, stuffed between pull-over sweaters. She supposed crying might pass a half-hour, but she had dried up her tears over these particular occasions years ago.

She sighed, rose - leaving the open bag behind her - and crossed to the Coke can. Her finger ran over the familiar lettering. Americana. Even here. Crushed Americana. A bad habit of hers. Drove the European recycling collectors crazy. A hangover from another shattered pattern. She smiled, crushing the can further, as if to drive out her own loneliness - and hurled it against the wall, smashed it against the stripped plaster, twisted the metal and cut her palm.

ENOUGH!

Enough with tonight and with all the other versions of tonight! Enough of the present and half-finished things! No more. Enough with cheerful voices outside and stomping feet! With well made beds and matching luggage!

And bloody hell to customs.

She stood staring at the place where the can had smashed up against the wall before finding its way to a deeper shadow. Her hands were clenched, her teeth and toes too. Her breath was hard. Her face was brittle.

With a stuttering gasp, she let her body go, and turned her back on the scene of her emotions. The empty room seemed to be swathed with blue, filled as if by a silken mist. She eventually became aware of the sound of rain outside her window, muting the bubbling sound of nighttime vendors. She stepped forward, twisted the handle and let the sweet stuff come in and cover her face like a spray. She breathed water.

Then, like a mother burying her child, she zipped her bag and turned out the light.

The End

(c) 1997
By Emily C. A. Snyder
Website: Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam!
Biography