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she wakes up and finds herself in an unfamiliar bed in a familiar town.

the walls of the room are sky blue, freshly painted.

the paint fumes are still lingering, infused in the new carpeting.

she rolls over on to her side and feels the distinct pain of a new tattoo on her ribcage.

she peels the onion layers of sheets away from his face.

he's breathing through his mouth again, sidestepping the congestion he's been feeling despite the fact that the cat has been kept out of this room for weeks.

it's sunny again.

the weather channel had said that the entire week would be bleak and grey.

it was wrong.

the weather channel is often wrong.

she realizes this now.

his eyelashes fan across his cheekbones and his eyebrows don't furrow when he's in deep sleep.

she moves a little closer.

his arm immediately repositions itself and slides under her neck without missing a beat.

he sighs.

she rests her face against his neck and breathes in deeply.

she wants to remember this feeling.

she doesn't know when she'll have the chance to feel it again.

his scruff rubs up against the bridge of her nose.

she's careful not to blink too much, afraid that her eyelashes grazing his ear will wake him up.

his arm wraps around her.

his finger tips push against her back in alternating pulses.

she likes to pretend that he's playing a song on an imaginary piano.

maybe a song just for her.

maybe not.

she rests her hand on his stomach.

in this room, with its sunlight and cold air, she begins to recall the beginning.

her mind rests momentarily on the endless reassurances and warmth she had felt.

she remembers the looks, the excitements, all the joys of just standing still with him on a new york city sidewalk on a humid summer night with no solid plans.

the feeling of being content to just exist in the same space as him lingered.

one tear at a time.

that's all that was left after a few nights of revelations.

one tear languidly slides down her cheek.

suddenly, in his sleep, he grabs her hand and places it on his chest.

he rests his hand on top of hers and continues to slumber.

her chest trembles as she closes her eyes.

right now, this is what she wants to remember.

this gesture.

the two of them lay close, wrapped in sheets, in a bed in new jersey on a cold winter day with no solid plans.

7 hours later he's gone.

she drives the car along the highway back from the airport.

her eyes are stinging.

one tear at a time.

she checks her phone.

there's a message from a co-worker...

happy new year!!! hope you two started the year with lots of snuggling!

she writes out a response...

happy new year. we basically broke up.

she looks at it for a second.

she decides not to send it.

she erases the message and puts the phone down.

she continues to drive.

for a minute, the tears come in droves.

they refuse to stop...

and then they do.

in the evening, she lays in bed and puts her own hand on her chest.

she rests the other hand on top of it.

one tear rolls down her cheek.

she is in a large bed in new jersey on a cold winter night with no solid plans.

she recalls his warm hand on her neck and the way he smiles.

she falls asleep.

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She wakes up in an unfamiliar chair, wrapped in an unfamiliar blanket.

She realizes she's still on the plane.

She surveys her surroundings with eyes half open.

The plastic bag that housed her navy blue airline blanket is crumpled up and hanging limply out of the magazine pocket.

She makes out the small faces of the people depicted on the emergency card.

It's dim.

It feels like a dinner party.

She shifts in her chair and tries to stretch her limbs without grazing the oversized bicep of the boy sitting next to her.

His head is hanging back.

His mouth is wide open and he snorts and snores momentarily.

His headphones seem unnecessarily large.

She yawns and suddenly her ears pop.

The low engine hum suddenly becomes a roar.

She closes her eyes again and makes sure her glasses are still dangling from her shirt where she had left them.

She clasps her hands together on her lap, underneath the navy blanket that clings to her with mass amounts of static electricity.

She hangs her head to the right.

A man asks her if she would like something to drink while tapping her lightly on the shoulder.

She hesitates and then asks for water.

The boy next to her, waking suddenly, asks for a rum and coke.

She takes one sip, sets her cup down on the perfectly square napkin atop the perfectly grey passenger tray and hangs her head to the left.

She closes her eyes again.

She feels turbulence.

Her thoughts graze upon the fact that she's one of many people, sitting in a tin can with wings.

She wonders how much force would be needed to puncture the plane walls.

She decides, "not much force at all."

She tries to look out the window only to find that the old man sitting next to it has closed the shutter.

The old man has his blanket wrapped around him, up to his neck.

He has a neck pillow.

He looks like a worm.

He looks like a scholarly worm from a cartoon show.

He also resembles Larry David.

It's the middle of the night and she surrenders to the realization that this night will be a night of half-sleep and discomfort.

The rest of the passengers are unmoving.

They are faceless.

They are breathing heavy and resting.

She inhales slowly.

Airplane air always makes her nose dry.

She turns the air blower off.

She sets her shawl on her lap underneath her blanket.

She pushes her seat back as far as it will go.

The roar of the engine now sounds like far off waves.

Just like the waves she saw the day before.

She wakes up.

She's in Cleveland.

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She wakes up in a familiar bed in the middle of the night.

Her hand reaches out over the pale yellow comforter in search of something.

She finds nothing there but a crumpled pillow.

It feels chilled and detached despite the fact that she's been hugging it all night.

The air outside of the covers is cold and unforgiving.

Her mind races.

She feels a lump in her throat and the shiver of anxiety creeps up the back of her neck.

She looks around at darkness.

It makes no difference whether her eyes are open or closed.

She takes a deep breath and starts compiling lists in her head.

Lists of things to pack for her next trip.

Lists of books she needs to read.

Lists of errands she needs to run.

She is listlessly listing.

She rolls over and follows the outline of her phone, catching what light is left in the room.

She fingers the charger cord and touches the screen.

She decides to check the time.

It's too early to wake up.

She realizes that she needs to go back to sleep.

She squints to make-out the shapes in the room.

Her pupils dilate.

Now everything is where she left it.

Her oversized, striped shirt hangs from her easel accompanied by her wide-rimmed fedora.

The heater blows a breeze passed it and it flutters momentarily.

She's thirsty and overheated, but can't move.

She ponders her laziness and wonders why she rather stay where she is instead of providing herself more comfort with a glass of water and a peeled back blanket.

Her hand creeps back towards the phone.

She considers calling.

She stops herself, rolls back over and hugs the pillow.

She sighs and forces her eyes shut.

She wakes up.

She gets ready for work.

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She wakes up in the morning in an unfamiliar bed and stares up at the unfamiliar surrounding windows. She sees cloudless skies all around her and misses the clouds at home.

She can smell his sweet muskiness, but can’t see him. All she sees are dunes of dark comforter surrounding her. She rolls over slightly and pushes her face into the pillow, breathing in deeply.

She just wants to remember this scent.

Later she finds out that the smell can be replicated with French cade and lavender.

She feels a slight vibration as he turns to face her, still asleep. His arm and shoulder come into full view…his neck, just barely. His face is obstructed by another heap of comforter, but she knows he’s facing her. She hears soft breathing.

The skies are so brilliant; they cast a pale blue hue onto his pale skin.

His shoulder is gleaming.

She moves closer, pushing the comforter aside, and watches him for a moment.

His eyelashes are thick and lush. His sleep is deep and reassuring.

She grazes his neck with her hand and he sighs. A vague smile creeps across his face. His skin is warm.

She doesn’t want anything to change.

She wants morning to continue to be morning. She doesn’t want to be overtaken by hunger or the need for a cigarette. She just wants to lie next to him and watch him sleep and graze her hand over his strong, beautiful neck again and again.

There’s an innocence that only groggy mornings can bring. The bed is large, the comforter bountiful. They’re swimming. They’re floating in an instant.

She sighs and knows that she won’t be falling back asleep for now and she’s sad because she knows she’ll become bored of staring at him sleeping before long.

bored at her own impatience.

She wants to feel like she has the ability to admire and adore for more than a few minutes, but it’s too early to even try to pretend.

She momentarily attempts to will his eyes to open with her mind.

Then she feels guilty for even thinking of disrupting his sleep and stops.

She showers instead.

She stands under the water and notes all the bottles and tubes of scrubs, shampoo and soaps lined up around her. She glances at the hair clippings around the sink, undoubtedly from the last time he buzzed his head.

His mechanical toothbrush makes her toothbrush feel bad about its self.

She doesn’t understand why electric shavers and buzzers sit in cradles that make them lean to one side.

She doesn’t know which towel to use, so she just uses the one that has been hanging on the shower rod. She digs her face into it and starts to dry off her hair.

It’s cut shorter than she had wanted it to be cut, but it’s not like she has a choice at this point.

The towel needs to be washed soon.

She quietly lines up her war paint and begins her ritual.

Bobby pin.

Lotion.

Gel.

Moisturizer.

Crème.

Take a breather. 5 counts.

Foundation.

Eyebrows

Eyeliner

Lash curler.

Mascara.

Blush.

Take a breather. 5 counts.

Perfume.

Blow-dry.

Pomade.

Take a breather. 5 counts.

Clothing.

She takes a moment to look in the mirror and frowns.

She wishes she didn’t have to go through the trouble every morning, but it’s her shield. She wouldn’t dare let the whole world see her as a blank canvas.

She pulls her shoulders back and smiles into the mirror.

She welcomes herself back into the world of the living.

She trots over to the door and quietly opens it.

The mornings here are much more pleasant. It has something to do with not having to go to work, she realizes.

She pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

She smokes and stares at the hills, the sky, the telephone lines.

She puts the cigarette out in the window box planter.

All her cigarettes from the last few days are lined up there.

Little soldiers, half smoked and damp.

She tiptoes back into the apartment and strolls over to the kitchen.

She pulls her laptop out and begins to contact people back home.

She asks mundane questions.

“How’s the weather?”

“Oh, things are great.”

“He’s still sleeping.”

She works on random favors for people and tries to fill the empty expanse of time with small tasks.

She considers writing up a to-do list.

She pauses and looks at the frying pan in the sink she promised herself she would wash.

It’s been soaking for a few days now.

He walks into the kitchen.

She looks up from the screen and her shoulders, which had begun to scrunch back up to their usual stress-position, slink back down.

He grazes his hand on her neck.

She sighs and feels a smile creep across her face.

His hand is warm.

She considers going back to bed.