Travelling

Bleary eyed and shuffling with the sound of roller bags and flips flops snapping at her heels.
Early morning flights make her queasy.
Not enough time to wake up and get sorted before she's out the door, under fed, discombobulated.

Triple checking to make sure her phone is charged.
That it's with her and not in the cab.
Again.
Mike continues to threaten her with idiot strings for the case, like the ones she used to have on her mittens as a toddler.
Keep it tethered to you, at all times, he says.
She can't abide by the workmanlike construction clip he wears on his hip like some contractor on site, precariously dangling off the wide open precipice of the fourteenth floor.

To coffee or not to coffee, that is the question.
Rather, the ensuing result will be an extended bathroom break.
Is there time before boarding? What's the aircraft? A 67 or a shitty dual prop, with cubby hole toilets she can't stand up in.
Hence why she no longer wears heels while flying.
Try explaining forehead welts to new clients in North Bay while pitching.
Never a good time.

It's quiet now.
Momentarily.
The allure of jet setting all over the country wore thin about 50, 000 kms ago.
So many miles she can't cash in as the last thing she wants to do after a week in the bush or out west or up north is get back in a  plane and head to yet another hotel or resort under the guise of relaxing.

She can't remember what colour her own bedroom walls are anymore.

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