She hadn't gotten far, only to the gas station two doors over. At 11:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve the place was nearly abandoned, only the bored girl behind the counter with the big bangs and royal blue polyester smock, elbows resting on the counter with her chin resting in the palms of her hands within. Christmas music from the local country music station plays low in the background. The "ding" when she opens the door is much too cheery. Camel lights, she says. The girl pushes herself petulantly away from the counter and grunts softly as she reaches on tiptoe to reach the smokes. $4.75 she says, blowing air upward from her clumsily painted lips, only the liner remaining, to move an invisible hair from her eye. She takes the money from her wallet, and the girl in the blue smock says I've seen you. You come in here with a dog. A yappy dog. Yeah. I've seen you. She pockets the smokes and holds out her hand for the change, 25 cents. Yeah, I've been here. That's not my dog. The girl in the blue smock examines a painstakingly painted fingernail, puts her elbows back on the counter, then puts her chin back where it started. Yeah, well, Merry Christmas.
She slides in the snow in the parking lot, catches herself with her elbow on the hood of her car. She sees the slip marks behind her, then pushes herself up and walks gingerly on unsteady legs. She squeezes herself into the small space between steering wheel and seat. Not much room with all her shit in the back. She doesn't remember packing those suitcases and is not sure what's in them. It'll all be sorted out later, she thinks, as the car's tires seem to be feeling the ground with preternatural fingers, searching for purchase on the unforgiving ground.
She drives to a restaurant closed for the holiday between her house and the gas station and the car slides to a stop. The snow is not yet thick but the clouds hang bloated and low. She maneuvers her way out of the car and leans against the door, one sneakered foot resting on the tire behind her. She lights a cigarette and breathes. The gray exhalation and the cold of the air mingle and she is unsure which is clean. Her house, her old house now, is right next door. She can't see the windows but she is certain that the lights remain on, that ESPN is playing, that her presence is not missed. She looks up and blinks back snow, feels something inside of her once torpid, now wildly turning.
Inside her jacket pocket her phone vibrates and there is hope...hope! that this could be the start of something different. The screen flashes with the name of someone new; not the person hoped for, and her thumb hovers over the answer button for too long. She stares at the possibility, now gone, and exhales gray smoke. She raises her chin to see over the fence, to hear the voice, and wonders how long she will have to wait. She grinds the cigarette out under her shoe and slides back into the car. It is late but she has no idea where to go. The keys swing back and forth, making gentle "tink" noises on the steering column. The heat blasts on and the easy listening radio station plays 100 Hours of Christmas Music which she turns low. The snow is thick and heavy now so she points the car south.
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