Page 11 of Our Little Cliche
It’s like a carcass of memories. My photos have been taken off the wall, leaving only holes behind, and little divots remain in the carpet from the sofa I’d spent hours on, watching movies with Adam or reading.
Seeing how quickly life can flip upside down like this hurts me in a whole other way than I knew possible. So much so that I’d almost forgotten what caused it in the first place. All of the emotions that wreaked havoc in my mind were not only hard to swallow, they were entirelyunfamiliar. I mean, sure, I’ve moved before. But not like this.
My room is mostly empty, apart from the bed frame in parts on the floor and an unsealed box. My face flushes, remembering that my hidden collection ofadult toyshad to have been taken out from my hiding spot in the wardrobe to be packed. But hey… what’s a girl to do?
Faking my orgasms while hiding my collection of fake dicks and clit satisfiers wasn’t a choice I made lightly, but Adam hatedmy toys, and forbade me to own them in the first place. And since he threw my last collection in the rubbish, I never told him I got new ones. He had said it was the equivalent of cheating.
Ironic, isn’t it?
After mourning my house for a few moments, the two men—who have smug looks on their faces, by the way—collect what’s left in my room. Once again I’m alone with my thoughts, some clothes in my bag, a few bucks, smutty rom-coms, and a one-way ticket to hell.
So let me get this straight… Your leech of a boyfriend cheats on you with some hot sheila, and you get blind drunk to take away the pain. So incredibly drunk that you decide moving across the globe is a good idea but then you forget everything and have no recollection of anything until a week later when removalists knock on your door to take your stuff and you only had a few hours to become an FBI agent and figure out the pieces of the puzzle before you catch a flight to no man’s land. And on top of all of that you now have no job or have anyone to tell that you’re leaving the country in the first place.
…Yeah.
That.
“We’re finished here now, Miss Cate,” the older removalist, Tom, says as he locks up the truck. “Sign here, please.”
I sign the piece of paper without saying a word. Yet again, for the umpteenth time today, a burning tear falls beyond my lash line. But this time I didn’t fight it. I don’t have it in me to.
He frowns at the flight ticket in my hand that I had printed at the coffee shop before I left. “Sorry, I’m just doing my job. Leaving so soon?” he asks, and a nod is all I can respond with. “Want me to take the keys to your real estate agent for you?”
“You would do that?”
“It’s not a problem,” he assures me with a kind smile.
“Thanks. It’s on Rogerson Road.” I hand Tom my key, and as I do I hear tires rolling over the stones of my driveway. It’s my taxi. “Well, this is me,” I add, taking one final look at the life I’m leaving behind.
“Can it get any bloody worse? No… really, can it?” I scoff under my breath opening the door to my budget hotel room in Sydney’s CBD that dipped into what’s left of my money before my next—and final paycheck. “Mighty smiter, I don’t think I’ve screwed myself up enough, please, come and do some more damage!”
Eight hours of waiting for “lost” luggage and a missed flight to LA wasn’t on my to do list, but here I am, suffering the consequences of the fate of my own luck. I should be on a plane right now, flying somewhere over Vanuatu, but instead I’ll be spending the rest of the night with tears in my eyes.
Why is it always me that these things happen to?
Why do I have such bad luck… with menandlife?
Why am I always the second choice?
Asking those questions is the same as screaming into a void. No one’s listening. No one’s answering. But be as it may, crying isn’t going to help. And as clumsy as I am, at least I was not the one at fault for my luggage being lost, the airline was. Turns out my trip from Gold Coast never even took my bag out of the plane, so I had to wait for it to come back to Sydneytwicefor it to be retrieved. Now I’ve been re-scheduled for tomorrow’s flight, leaving at 5 P.M.
I pull out my phone and email Susan, telling her about the delay and drama, since she’s the only person in my life that I can talk to.What episode of the drama show that is my life am Iup to now? Keeping up with the Whodashians? No. Keeping up with the idiot dumb blonde from Australia? …Yes.
I sigh, throwing my stuff by the bed and open my laptop up. I suppose on the other hand, given the circumstances, I can use this time to look for a job over there.Jobs in BanffI type into Google and the usual pops up: places looking for waitresses, bar attendants, office staff, retail people and some farm jobs. Slim pickings, and all needing prior experience—which I don’t have. I only have my bachelors degree in English and Journalism. I left Uni to go straight to the magazine office, and had been there since, trying to work my way up.
Well, I guess I can apply for these jobs anyway… if I had a current resume.
Great.
Another thing to do in the time that I don’t have. Straining against the willpower of my own eyelids, exhaustion settles in, so finding a job is going to have to wait until later. My eyes drop heavy, and I’m asleep before I can close my laptop.
After spending an entire day waiting around the airport, I’m finally in line to check in at the kiosk for my flight to LA that leaves in three hours… but what I see above me has me cursingout loud.Rage setting fire to my blood. “Oh come on! Someone’s gotta be takin’ the piss?” I curse, seeing the dreaded worddelayedin big bold writing on the plasma screen above me. Not just for my flight, but the others too.
Now, I’m not one to make a scene… but, at this point, what else do I do? I’m past the end of my tether. I’m done. So done!
“Until when?!” I hear an old lady shout at the woman behind the desk, certain that spit was flying through the air at her.
“I’m sorry, the heatwave has caused a few planes to run technical errors today. We will hear from the captain soon and inform passengers when the flight can depart,” the worker replies to the old woman.
