I.
The hotel room smelled
of coffee and cigarettes,
a blend that used to mean
mornings, and
conversations,
but now it just reeked of
failure.
She was running, she decided.
That would be her answer
if anyone chanced a friendly introduction
and a pleasant inquiry
as to what a young woman
like her
was doing in Tennessee.
She was running from
The Big Easy,
a city that held
a lot of bad mistakes
and one good one.
Halfway through her journey.
Halfway to Philadelphia, a
nondestination.
Where she could try to piece everything
back together. Contemplate why
she was running from
what might have been.
It was an escape
so desperately needed, but
she knew
she would return.
The south was calling for her,
whispering her name
in between her
silent sobs.
One day,
she would get behind the wheel
of her beat up, run down car
and go back
for the only thing she left behind.
A question.
A chance.
A might-have-been.
II.
Her phone rang.
It was a question. From
The Question.
She answered with a
nonanswer.
She didn't know. It was
too soon.
She sighed.
Dropped the phone, watched it
bounce across a
very empty bed.
Grabbed her purse and felt around
blindly until her hand found
the familiar shape
of a 99 cent lighter and
a pack of Camels.
Went outside
to breathe in more failure.
III.
I can't write anything
here.
I don't know
what comes next.
Maybe tomorrow,
coffee and cigarettes
will smell like
a fresh start
and the first few miles
of a long drive
to New Orleans.
But tonight, they just smell like
a question.