Sixteen hours on the train. My fear of heights has reduced my transportational advancements from the skies not to four rubber wheels, but rusty train tracks. Sleeping while sitting upright, grand, and alright, feeling every bump in the land, with a continuous grumbling coming from the floor below. Luckily, I can’t sleep in silence, and the track friction played in time like lullabies.
The Windy City, louder were the winds than the tracks, I felt at peace and felt frantic all at once as soon as my brown boot bursted beyond the stepladder to get off the train. I had a tiny suitcase because the art of travelling light deemed itself appropriate, especially when travelling with a heavy heart. And there it was. The sign.
It read “cakes” and behind it was the tenth wonder of the world. Hair that waved superior to oceans, and eyes that would blind winged feathered travellers, and a smile that shined more melancholy than a a withered candle at the base of the stick. Words were unnecessary as our embrace spoke words of infinite value. Mutual was the feeling of not wanting to release the embrace. We left towards her studio, her steps, noticeably in haste.
“Make youself at home.” She said as she threw her keys on the kitchen countertop. Little did she know, home to me, was where she was, in her hands, hair, feet, voice, her existence was mine too. After the long trip, I did not fight her offer. Sprawled on the kitchen floor I watched each ceiling fan blade revolve as I gathered my senses. She smiled and said, “I’m going to go out and chain-smoke a little bit, will you be here when I get back?” “Where else would I be?” I replied. Little did I know that chain-smoking meant more than I had presumed. She never returned, and on my third and final day of my visit, I remained sprawled on the kitchen floor in her empty studio apartment, watching the ceiling fan blades spin.