Page 148

Not Prague

I clutched his notes until I fell asleep to the sweet thought there might be a future. That if he reads my email that’s so damn naked and vulnerable and still in some weird ass timeline wants me, let’s fucking go. I don’t know what I’m going to do in Prague but I think I need a second to digest what he said and what I did and how it shakes out.

My phone is dead, I left my charger on the last train at the Hamburg stop.

I have my laptop up on the little table. I keep checking my email and then toggle to the blog and back. There’s no response. I should have done that receipt thing but I didn’t and here we are rejected by my own diarrhea of the mouth.

I babbled on about how I feel about him or how I felt this whole time and nothing. I look out the window as the sun hits the horizon. “Do not look for a new dawn or a new day. And kids, do not put yourself out there.” I have got to stop talking to myself. I look at my phone’s calendar to count the days we’ve been apart while we were falling in love. We had more apart than together. I see my calendar is still marked with doctor’s appointments I’ve missed or staff meetings I’m not actually invited to anymore. Artifacts from a different life. I count days and weeks and slide my finger across something I used to be chained to. “What else have I missed from Kat’s old schedule.” I swipe through the last couple months.

“I’ll stop talking to myself in a second.” I sit on the chair and watch the towns unfold through the big window. I crack a Diet Coke. It’s much flatter than I thought Czech would be. There are these mountains and cliffs heading into town. I stretch and a note flutters from the table onto the floor.

1. Your tongue

2. Your tits

3. That little divot right below your belly button

Three reasons I masturbate all the time.

I smile and tuck it into the envelope along with all the others. I can’t read his letter again, especially when he’s left me hanging. Or maybe he hasn’t seen the email yet. What time is it? Fuck. What if he texted and I didn’t respond and he’s moved on. He could be married by now to some Boston woman who was in the right place at the right time. He’s that charming. Three days is enough time to find someone. She’s uncomplicated and I’ll bet she just sipped her latte without getting a drop on herself. That bitch.

I need to find a new charger.

I clean myself up as we pull into the station which is stunning and unreal. Everyone is speaking French. Why so much French? Wait, I thought there’d be more Czech spoken, not that I know either. I stop at a bench and pull out my camera. Then I lay on the bench and take a picture of the arched steel architecture. Then I see the clock that says, Brussels. Why is the station telling me the time in Belgium when I’m in Czech? I dash over to a shop person and ask kinda the most psychotic question ever.

“Hi. English?”

“Yes.”

“Where am I?”

She looks at me strange. “You are in Brussels, Belgium.”

“What are you saying to me? I’m in Belgium? Why am I not in Prague?”

“I do not know. Do you need help?” The person backs up a little bit but I advance on the counter.

“What I need is an explanation about how I’m like 200 miles off my path? And he loves me and I’m no closer to knowing if that’s true if I’m in Belgium.”

“You are approximately 716 kilometers off course. And to be loved is good.”

I get in the not helpful woman’s face. “Do not speak to me in kilometers unless it’s a race. What does that mean? Oh, god. I’m off the path.” I turn in a wide circle staring at this impressive train station and I do not know what to do. I grab a charger and some coffee, which immediately lands on the ground while I try to open the charger packaging instead of waiting until I was seated.

I look at the woman who does not want me near her.

“I’m sorry is there a rag or something.”

She simply says, “You must go.”

“That makes sense.” I put up my hand to wave goodbye and slip in the spilled coffee catching myself on the counter but not before pulling down several Belgian display boxes of gum onto the floor. They shower down on top of me as I narrowly avoid sitting in the spilled coffee. At least my ass is dry this time. A man rounds the counter and puts his hand out. I hand him the charger, he opens it and hands it back.

“You must leave the store.”

I try to get up and my boots slip in the liquid. I scoot to the left of the puddle across the shop floor and then find a dry spot to flip over into a downward dog position and get up. I tuck my boob back in my shitty bra, pull down my shirt, a little too low but I’m going to let it go for a moment while I try to muster any amount of dignity. He follows me with my camera bag and as soon as I step back into the station he shoves the bag my way, turns around screaming French to the other employees which I assume is cursing. I grit through my teeth, “Latin!”

I yell, “Again, I’m sorry. So sorry. Désolée!” I remembered the word for sorry! I scream it again, “Désolée.” He is not as impressed with me as I am.

I sit down on the edge of a bench and stretch the cord to a plug. I’m in everyone’s way, especially my own. I’ve got nowhere to go. I’d consider living here if I weren’t terrified I’d run into those shopkeepers at the grocery store or something.