Mitch tossed in his sleep. He kept rearranging the pillows haphazardly and kicking the blankets around. The dark of the room seemed to suffocate his every thought, and the unfamiliar starch of the linens irritated his cheek and his bare feet.
A chill settled in the room, finally urging him to climb out of bed and fiddle with the thermostat. These things are different in every damn hotel I end up in, Mitch thought to himself. He turned the dial this way and that until he heard the fans kick in with a faint rumble. Satisfied, he clambered back into bed and tried his best to get comfortable. Mitch pulled the covers up to his chin for warmth, and soon fell into a deep sleep.
---
"You wouldn't know a poem if it hit you in the face!"
"Well, that might be true, but it doesn't mean I don't want to learn."
"Ugh, Scott, it's not that easy."
"Says you."
"Yeah, says me! I put a lot of hard work into my poetry. A lot of time and effort. And when I am good enough, I'm going to perform my poems in coffee shops and bars across the nation."
"Glamorous. I think I'll stick with my day job."
"Suit yourself. I'm out of here, Scott."
"Wait, Mitch. I didn't mean it like that. Mitch, come back.
Please, Mitch.
Mitch, come back.
Please."
---
Mitch awoke with a start. It was still dark out-- no, wait-- the curtains were closed in the hotel room. He rolled out of bed and stumbled over to the window, peeking behind the shade and squinting as a wash of gray light filled one corner of the room. The sky was hanging heavy this grim morning, the sun diffusing through layers upon layers of dusky clouds. Some of the fog floated so low, it wrapped around the rooftops of the buildings on the skyline.
Mornings like these made Mitch crave coffee more than anything. He left the curtain half-open as his eyes adjusted to the light and he set the coffee on to brew. He eyed the suitcase in the corner of the room dubiously, not wanting to think about repacking and checking out so soon after he had checked in.
Instead, he let his thoughts drift to his dream from the night before. Mitch sipped his hot coffee slowly, both hands wrapped around the small mug, as he recalled his childhood friend, Scott, calling his name over and over. Mitch could feel the warmth of the coffee begin to soothe the tightness in his chest, but not quite enough.
Come back. Please.
Had he really had enough time on the road? Mitch had loved every second he spent promoting his debut book, an anthology of the poems he'd written over the past eight years. The book wasn't perfect; he'd always intended for his poems to be listened to, to be brought to life by his own voice. So when the opportunity came for him to go on tour and recite his freeform poetry to audiences in small venues across the states, how could he say no?
How could he?
Mitch's mind wandered back to Scott. After attending different colleges, they began to lose touch with one another. The boy who had so quickly become his best friend soon turned into someone he only spoke with through text, the occasional email, an odd phone call here and there.
They had met again during their senior year of college, when Mitch walked into a coffee shop to scope out a good writing space and saw Scott behind the counter. Mitch looked at his feet, unable to decide if he wanted to say hello or not. Luckily, he didn't need to decide.
"Hey, Mitch! It's been a long time," Scott called across the tiny café. Mitch looked up, startled, then smiled and nodded.
"Wow, yeah, it really has. How have you been?" Mitch asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Scott gestured to the shop around him. "Oh, you know. Living the dream," he shrugged.
Mitch thought he sensed a touch of lighthearted sarcasm before realizing that for Scott, this was the dream. He was a small-town boy. He had loving parents who worked in the town. He had a stable job where he got to interact with people every day.
Maybe it was just me who wanted to get out of that place.
---
Mitch was swiftly brought out of his memory by the hotel phone ringing on the side table next to him. He reached over, balancing his coffee mug on his knee, and picked up.
"Hello?" Mitch said, trying to sound more cheerful than the day outside.
"Hi, yes, Mr. Grassi? This is the front desk. I'm just calling to confirm that you will be checking out at 10 o'clock this morning?" the polite concièrge said.
"Yes, I will."
"Okay, Mr. Grassi. Call us when you'd like your luggage to be brought down. Have a good day."
"Thanks! You too." Mitch placed the phone on its base and sighed. He had one more performance tonight, before he would immediately have to hop on a plane back home. Back to New York.
