Where My Problems Go to Sleep

  I walk off the plane that just landed from New York City, leaving its dry air behind me as I step into Charleston International Airport. I make my way through a sea of talking people unable to decipher what they’re saying because it all sounds like a buzzing bee. Leaving the baggage claim belt with my luggage in hand, I step out into the hot Charleston air to get to my hotel. The air immediately clings to my skin making me feel gross, but I don’t mind. Walking on King Street brings me so much joy because I entertain my small shopping addiction as I enter and exit every twenty-first century shop inside elegant historic buildings. I always have to make a stop at Callie’s Hot Biscuit where I know I can satisfy my craving for carbohydrates. The smell of melted butter and sugar infiltrates my nose as it escapes the shop and wafts down the street when I open the door to the small-scale shop. I walk down the little hall with raw, unsanded wood walls, marble countertops that stick out on my right, and cold metal stools, which send a shiver up my spine when I sit. My mouth waters as I get closer to the cash register to order.  

In a matter of minutes I have one of the best treats in my grasp. I take a bite of the warm, freshly baked biscuit, chewing slowly so the moment lasts. Reluctantly, I leave the shop while the taste of cinnamon sugar and melted butter lingers in my mouth begging for more. I continue walking down the street window shopping with the bright sun beaming down on me like I’m under a spotlight on a stage. As the sun sets I feel the anger from it on my skin giving it a slight burn. The sky is bright blue with hints of orange as the clouds appear baby pink like cotton candy. I reach the door of my hotel as the sun goes down like a slow elevator and get ready for dinner. I hop in the shower letting the warm water rid my body of dirt and sweat that has been built up throughout the day. I’ve changed into some nicer clothing just to change into sweats two hours later, which I think is kind of pointless, but some restaurants have dress codes like schools. 

After I finish my meal, I walk back to my hotel under the moonlight that fades into the deep navy blue sky. The temperature may have decreased, but the humidity has stuck around. Once I get back to my hotel room, I change into gym clothes and watch Netflix. A ritual I must carry out when visiting Charleston is watching a romantic comedy or some relatable teen movie at an unconventional hour of the night. I pause the movie several times throughout because I can’t handle how cute the storyline is, but my body starts to squirm because it makes me uncomfortable. My eyes start to pool with water, but I hold back the pain of letting a tear slide down my face as I start thinking about how I will never have what the couple has in the movie—  the genuine and real love they have that I want to find with someone, the too good to be true person who makes me ponder why they picked me when they could have anyone else. I crave the kind of love that really is something, not just the idea of something. It’s something I like to fantasize about, but I understand that you can’t always connect with someone when you have an idealized version of them in your head. 

Before I think another thought, my mind and eyes shut down for the night. I wake up a few hours later in a daze until I realize that I have to leave soon. I find myself taking in a deep breath on an empty King Street at 5:30 a.m. as I slowly make my way down the uneven brick street, letting the 18th-century pastel buildings charm me with their pretty facade hiding the modern stores inside. As I board my flight and take my seat, I’m surprised at the fact that I don’t feel any of the stress or negativity I usually feel in New York take over my body. Not wanting this feeling to end, I step off the plane into JFK and immediately feel a ghost of my New York self stalking me—getting closer while I walk past the colorful signs that hang from the ceiling with directions of where to go, the restaurants, and various duty-free shops that lure people in with bright lights. I feel the ghost a few feet away from my body as I continue to walk past the walls that lose color with every step into baggage claim where the lifeless gray walls have started to reflect my demeanor. After waiting what feels like an eternity for my bag, I push the doors of JFK open to leave and the ghost of myself has caught up to me.  A gust of chilly New York wind blows through my thin coat.