On The Nightstand
Check-in complete—my iPhone landed on my duvet. Its screen glowed with my boarding pass, and I frowned.
How many pants will I need? Two shirts or one?
I scanned the pile of clothes spread across my bed, the lightbulb casting the scene before me into harsh view. My phone buzzed from beneath the mound; I rummaged under shorts, t-shirts and an array of cute crop-tops until I found it, opened my messages and read the brightly lit text “Pk U @ 7.”
Mark, my on-again, off-again boyfriend, had set a new record for brevity. I clicked the thumbs-up icon, and my gaze froze on the timestamp—11:34 PM. I sucked in a breath.
For three years, we'd lived in fragments of pixelated video calls and packages left on my doorstep. I swallowed, always waiting as postponed dreams stacked up like junk mail on my hallway console.
I need sleep more than options.
With one sweep, I shoved everything into the small suitcase; its fabric groaned while its zipper rasped shut. It wobbled when I placed it beside my bedside table.
Before snuggling under the covers, I took one last glance towards my nightstand and the small blue booklet that lay beside my phone. The gold print of the emu and kangaroo on the Australian coat of arms gleamed on its surface. I reached across and turned off the lamp.
Eight hours and eleven minutes later, I squinted at my watch—7:45 AM flashed on its face.
My lightweight coat did little to protect me from the morning chill while I waited for Mark to arrive. I closed my eyes, warm air brushed across my face, and frangipanis pierced the frigid air. The whisper of palm trees swaying in the breeze and rhythmic crashing of waves until shattered by a sharp metallic shriek.
I scowled towards the beaten-up sedan pulling into the curb.
“Cutting it fine, aren’t we?” I mumbled, my case landing on the back seat with a thud.
His laughter filled the cabin. “Don’t panic, you already checked in, didn’t you? A quick bag-drop and we’re all set … we’ll make it with time to spare.”
I settled into my seat with a sigh. The constant hum of passing traffic lulled me to sleep, interrupted by a curse from Mark, earning my glare.
“Last minute packing again?” He grinned.
I yawned, “Yeah, couldn’t help it.”
We jerked forward, and my knuckles whitened, gripping my small travel bag. The vehicle swaying while he swerved through crowded lanes, leaving a trail of blaring horns in his wake.
“What are you doing?”
“Need petrol,” he said, pulling into the last service station before the airport turnoff.
I glanced at my watch when the hollow clunk drew me to the door he’d disappeared through. Time clicked over in slow motion. Heat blossomed up my neck while I watched him stride into the kiosk and hand over his card as if he had all the time in the world.
“You couldn’t have gotten that yesterday?” I asked when he re-entered the car.
Shifting to gaze out the window, I watched the morning traffic backed up along the Tullamarine Freeway, heading towards the city. Us moving the other way.
Mark’s voice jolted me.
“Bloody drongo … can you go any slower?” He gestured at the vehicle in front.
“Thought you said we had plenty of time?” I asked.
His huff, reminiscent of a large cat, made me chuckle. I smiled when we passed the enormous billboard, Welcome to Tullamarine Airport, written across its facade.
I glanced at the dashboard clock. Wow that’s tight.
“Told ya,” Mark said, pulling into the first available bay of the short-term carpark.
Wheels rattled while we traversed the uneven surface, surrounded by wafting exhaust fumes, following the marked pathways towards the terminal. The trill of reversing vehicles and metallic clunks echoed through the undercover carpark, vanishing when we emerged onto the crosswalk. Moments later, we burst through sliding doors and reached the nearest counter. I flopped onto the cool surface, gasping for breath, and smiled.
The woman behind the desk glanced at Mark, then back at me. “Passport?” She asked.
Sweat beaded on my forehead as I fumbled in my carry bag.
A blue flash flared in my mind—a coat of arms, familiar and official. The nightstand.
My gut twisted.
Oh Crap.
Shuffling feet swallowed her words. I turned toward Mark’s retreating form, one hand on the counter, but didn’t move.
Abouto the author
Louisa Prince is a Melbourne-based writer and self-proclaimed late bloomer whose stories often explore themes of family and health. Her work has appeared in CafeLit Magazine, New Plains Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Sky Island Journal and elsewhere.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.
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