With her foot up on the heater-baseboard which ran along the wall, and her elbow on her raised knee, she cupped her chin in her hand and stared out of the window. The rain was coming down in sheets now, and if it did not stop within the next two hours, she would surely be drenched by the time she got home. Not that she had forgotten an umbrella. That would never happen. But between her overly large suitcase, her bulging cosmetic bag, her laptop bag, the duffel bag with extra shoes, and the shopping bag with gifts and snacks, she would have no hand free for such a contraption. Over the decades, she had tried to constrain the amount of things she took on such trips, but no amount of inconvenience and hassle with her luggage had been able to cure her of her deeply rooted abandonment issues. “Be Prepared!” was a stain on every fiber of her being.

Now she was simply grateful for this window, literally and figuratively: the bracket of time to herself to shift into neutral and coast along for a couple of hours, as well as the cold, grey, square sheet of glass to lean her head against and be lulled by its monotonous stream of scenery. In the same way the fields and buildings and trees could be seen coming gradually toward her from the distance only to rush by and disappear behind her, so too did the events of the week pass review in her tired brain. Just as grey, just as monotonous.

It was the same old refrain. The weeks of frantic and thorough preparation hadn’t positioned her into a state of confidence, only exposed her to the infinite sea of knowledge, skills, and possibilities that she did not yet master. The closer the deadline came, the tighter the knot in her stomach grew, and the more ant-acids she took before going to bed. The migraines that plagued her on the eve of her presentations now only seemed to come when she addressed an entirely new C suit. Not knowing how high this new bar might be always left her feeling wide open to her darkest opposing line-backer with the number, “Who do you think you are?” The end-zone seemed miles away on such projects, and she felt foolish being on the field at all, let alone thinking she could run the ball, or even score.

But she always did. Though the presentations themselves felt like an out-of-body experience, afterwards, she knew she had slain it. She would hit a homer almost every time. Her clients were pleased. She would be invited back. Business was growing. And yet none of these facts managed to stick to her lapel. They ricocheted off of her like a bird flying into a window, with only a thud and a dead bird to show for it. After some polite conversation with her clients, she would excuse herself and return to her room for some rest before she began the arduous logistics of returning her entire wardrobe and kitchen sink to her place of residence. In that hour or so before she checked out, she would wilt into the hotel bed as all the tension and stress would drain out of her. Then with legs now made of rubber and arms that had become mostly useless appendages, she somehow managed to get all of her luggage into the elevator, then onto the street, down the five blocks to the station, and onto the train.

(in 5)