It was a bookmark during the last week.  He hadn’t noticed.  Rarely did.  She would wait for his Friday night shift.  Sleeping neighbors wouldn’t see the taxi.  She wondered how it would feel touching down, and if she needed a new book for the journey; something with fresh, unread chapters.

Dog-eared pages scarred novels across his shelf.  No care.  Fitting.  She lived for the quiet hours; long-awaited calm.  Silence apart from the soft purring of a cat that wasn’t hers.  She craved something of her own; unblemished, familiar.  New without being foreign, easy to understand.

Parts of her would remain; fabric dangling from coat hangers, bottled aromas in cupboards, worn letters from happier days tucked into corners of drawers, out of sight.  She knew to cradle the essentials of her soul, take them with her.  Only those strong enough found place in the green canvas suitcase at the foot of the bed.  Their bed, now his.

She heard cicadas outside, singing in chorus, growing louder; farewell party for someone they didn’t know.  Headlights of a taxi scanned the road, searching for her on a moonless night.  She thought it nice the driver offered help; a forgotten act, though she said it was fine, could do it herself, and felt increased strength as luggage met seat.

The airport seemed deserted, like venues after concerts, except pristine; smell of cleaning products, sound of squeaky floors.  She knew once checked-in, things would be different.  She would be finally checked-out. 

“Window or aisle?” the attendant asked.

She had never been more certain.

“Window,” she smiled, handing over her suitcase.

She wondered how the landscape would look from above; if she could make out landmarks from the glow of lights, and if she would feel like a bird, wingless yet free.

– Rowan MacDonald

Author’s Note: “Departure” is dedicated to anyone who has ever felt trapped and longed to escape, as well as those who found the courage to do so.