Still,
my woolly thoughts seemed to be leading me somewhere, so I pushed out of my
mind the math exams I’d missed, the classrooms I couldn’t find. I didn’t want to think about the times I woke
up in a library, with only a few days left to write a year-end term paper I
hadn’t even started. I never knew how
these crises turned out, because suddenly they would be over, and I would be
here, on my way to the restaurant to visit Marietta. She never asked where I’d been. She was my friend.
Finally
the hallway widened into a large, silent atrium, with massive stairs leading to
the second floor. I buzzed up the
staircase, following its curvature instead of simply flying straight up. In the much smaller hallway off to the right
some instinct, or past experience, brought me to a small bedroom, gently lit by
a reading lamp. I didn’t know whose it
was or why no one slept there tonight, but I did know I would be safe here—at
least for a little while.
Photo by C. Hornby |
The
bed, however, was not an option. I
fluttered over to the tall chest of drawers.
Each drawer had been left open, just the tiniest bit: I settled for the middle drawer, the one with
the thick woolly winter sweaters. When I
was big I’d hated wool and its scratchy, suffocating warmth, but now I curled
myself into a tight ball between a snowflake-patterned jumper and a purple
cabled cardigan and let out a little sigh.
Tomorrow, perhaps, I would be big again.
Tomorrow I might remember why I kept forgetting.
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