By J.S. O’Keefe
Every trip starts crooked: an escape, or the itch to move.
The station clock stays indifferent. Cold air comes off the inlet. You walk for hours, owing no one an answer.
Rain falls on you and the beggars. Soon, you keep score. The coffee is ordinary. Street noise sharpens. You miss a tram, then another, each taking imagined versions of your life. Regret arrives. You spend more, chasing something that stays out of reach.
Back home, the hallway smells of dust. You fumble the keys.
Travel did not change you. It showed how little moved.
Even knowing that, you pack again.
That’s a killer opening line.
Going away is better than staying put.