Vacation Fugue

At the deep end of night when all that can be seen is the digital clock and the light under the corridor door, we slip out of our personas - a fumbled attempt at drowsy love-play; the plethora of giant pillows hiding us from ourselves. The hotel elevator takes us further into a story we have already written. Day 3 blurs, sight-seeing pictures long poured from the concrete mixer of time. The machinery of a life rusts absent-mindedly somewhere else. Morning arrives in untidy disarray. The vacation puts on your holiday face and pants, the pants offer to go get Danish and a yoghurt from the breakfast bar while your partner paints her features a deeper shade of alien hue.