the sky inside me
He’d come here to find himself.
He didn’t count on the confusion of the airport or even trying to hail a cab. The language barrier was formidable, but he was able to make himself understood enough to get to the hotel and checked in. The phone’s red light winked at him as he dropped his bags.
He spent ten minutes finagling with the phone system until an operator took pity and gave him access to the message. “Don’t go there.” Vaguely familiar, the voice, but he couldn’t be sure. “Don’t go there.”
Sleep was fitful, elusive; he didn’t rest well on the road. Finally giving up he showered, brushed his teeth and went down to the restaurant. His café au lait and croissant finished, he entered the street, turned right and started walking. He kept his head high and his shoulders back, hands deep in pockets as he put one foot in front of the other. “Don’t go there,” echoed off the wet cobblestones, ricocheted off the tall row houses on either side of the street. Open windows were populated with small clay pots and invariably red flowers that he didn’t recognize. There was an old radio where Edith Piaf was singing: “Don’t go there” over and over. He wandered for hours, losing himself in the twisting, unmarked streets; passing empty French cars that had pamphlets advertising Russian companionship in Japanese on the passenger seats. He kept walking. He missed home wistfully.
He’d come here to find himself, and was lost in the streets for his effort. Amused, he made a right, a left, another left, another left and a right, up some stairs where a heap of fashionable clothes slept heavily, discarded in the night by an anxious couple. The high street took him south: right, right, then left. He stopped. The old building was slight compared to its modern siblings, but no less elegant. “Don’t go there,” he heard in his ear, then thought: the third floor.
He rapped the door with some force, waited, breathed slowly. The door opened and Maureen stood there in a red dress and white mink stole. “There you are,” she said smiling. “We’ve been waiting.” Inside the suite, he faced himself, shaking. He was dressed in Armani, but hadn’t any shoes on.
“Did you say something?” he asked working his tie.
Maureen closed the door quietly on the empty hallway.
© 2006 by Jason Arnett. All rights reserved.
He didn’t count on the confusion of the airport or even trying to hail a cab. The language barrier was formidable, but he was able to make himself understood enough to get to the hotel and checked in. The phone’s red light winked at him as he dropped his bags.
He spent ten minutes finagling with the phone system until an operator took pity and gave him access to the message. “Don’t go there.” Vaguely familiar, the voice, but he couldn’t be sure. “Don’t go there.”
Sleep was fitful, elusive; he didn’t rest well on the road. Finally giving up he showered, brushed his teeth and went down to the restaurant. His café au lait and croissant finished, he entered the street, turned right and started walking. He kept his head high and his shoulders back, hands deep in pockets as he put one foot in front of the other. “Don’t go there,” echoed off the wet cobblestones, ricocheted off the tall row houses on either side of the street. Open windows were populated with small clay pots and invariably red flowers that he didn’t recognize. There was an old radio where Edith Piaf was singing: “Don’t go there” over and over. He wandered for hours, losing himself in the twisting, unmarked streets; passing empty French cars that had pamphlets advertising Russian companionship in Japanese on the passenger seats. He kept walking. He missed home wistfully.
He’d come here to find himself, and was lost in the streets for his effort. Amused, he made a right, a left, another left, another left and a right, up some stairs where a heap of fashionable clothes slept heavily, discarded in the night by an anxious couple. The high street took him south: right, right, then left. He stopped. The old building was slight compared to its modern siblings, but no less elegant. “Don’t go there,” he heard in his ear, then thought: the third floor.
He rapped the door with some force, waited, breathed slowly. The door opened and Maureen stood there in a red dress and white mink stole. “There you are,” she said smiling. “We’ve been waiting.” Inside the suite, he faced himself, shaking. He was dressed in Armani, but hadn’t any shoes on.
“Did you say something?” he asked working his tie.
Maureen closed the door quietly on the empty hallway.
© 2006 by Jason Arnett. All rights reserved.