She packed for a weekend beach trip. A sundress, an oversized tee for sleeping. Flip-flops. Sunscreen. She agonized over a tube of waterproof mascara, but left it behind in favor of her toothbrush.
She tossed her bag onto the assigned lower port bunk of an empty quad cabin after wandering the decks bow to stern, hoping to make herself fashionably late to the goodbye party. But the on-board gift shop didn’t carry her brand of mascara and two laps of the ship made her feel claustrophobic, so she relinquished her aloofness and settled in.
The flight was short, only seven months. Her roommates didn’t care that she was first to check in or last to leave. When they disembarked, they vanished, indistinct amongst the throng, like foam on a surf she’d never see again. She changed into her flip-flops and waded out with the tide.
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