Headed South

I sat sideways in the passenger seat, door open, and pulled off my sneakers. The red Converse tilted and coarse sand spilled out onto the asphalt and white painted line of the parking lot. A gust of wind smacked my face with salt from the breakers below. I thought of the warm bath at home, steaming the mirrors, decadent bubbles rising to the edge. It would have to wait.

A whistle told me another train was coming. I tossed my shoes on the floorboards and stood up, folding my arms on top of the car and resting my head. The thick knit of my sweater cut into my chin. It would leave a mark bright as a poppy but it made me forget my feet were cold. Now I could feel the train approach, a low rumble keeping rhythm with my heart which was beating faster and faster. It grew louder, drowning out even the crashing waves and all my memories. I waved at the passengers staring out the window at the sunset. Most didn't see me.

Once the last car disappeared to the South and the ocean reclaimed the atmosphere, I tumbled back into the Camry and reached into the backseat for my purse. I found a tissue and tried to wipe away the grit mixed with tears staining my face.