I watched the Chicago skyline fall first under the clouds, and then eventually out of view. She was gone. Really and truly, she was gone. Or, I suppose it would be more appropriate to say that I was gone. She was right where I left her, but I was in a metal cylinder speeding further and further away. I wondered if I would ever see her again. The ageless romantic in me swelled and ached with the thought that we would one day hurl ourselves into each other's arms, without a care for the bruises our passion would leave.
As I watched Chicago turn into a map of the United States, and then a blue and green globe, I knew better. We would never see each other again. I took out her t-shirt that she gave me and inhaled deeply of her scent. One day the smell would be gone, replaced by my own, but for now the shirt was the only piece of her I had. Perfume, and laundry detergent and her own unique vitalness. But only for now.
By the time I had put the shirt back in my bag the earth had faded into the backdrop of billions of twinkling dots. The view from the observation deck of a Zephyr-class cruiser is one that never gets old. At least not for me. It's startling how beautiful it is. But I can never find home. I couldn't identify it if I wanted to.
And I did. Want to, that is.
Oh well. Time to get to work.
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