He had packed it like a cigarette smoked to the filter and the zipper made a hot noise as it closed like night around day.
The duffel hit the floor at his feet. A disturbed dust bunny made a break for the safety under the box spring but settled for a discarded leather slipper. He coughed like an afterthought and walked to the kitchen.
He stared at the other packed stuff on table and scratched at the stubble on his cheek. His fingernail found a little scab and he thought absentmindedly about the important things he was probably forgetting.
He picked the scab and examined it closely in the buzzing, greenish light.
He rarely forgot things but when he did he had a tendency to make it something spectacularly important.
He flicked the scab to the carpet and turned to the refrigerator. The door sucked open and the interior was illuminated in yellow long enough to show him again that there was still no sustenance contained within before he closed the door again.
Something tickled his cheek and wiped at it. There was a little blood smear on the back of his hand. He licked it and grunted in agreement and tasted plastic.
He stepped over a wet spot and moved to the sink and squeezed some dish soap into his palm as the hot water struggled through the old copper in the walls.
He tried to scrape what looked like an old noodle from the edge and only succeeded in bending his thumbnail back painfully. He put his hands under the water and flung them away from the lava-hot flow with a yelp.
He bit his knuckle and tasted soap as the space heater hummed on the counter drying his freshly washed hat.
Out the window a light breeze gently pushed the mosquitoes in wobbly circles in the shadows of the carport.
He looked upon the defiant noodlet with contempt.
The hours before a trip were always the longest hours of his life.
-Alex who has long hours, too.