The grating burps of the cab’s rushing tires against the intermittent beams prostrate across the shoddily built, hence always under construction Grand Central Parkway amplified the countdown already unwinding in my head. Each tick, each burp of the tire against a beam was as though an accusation that my fate was of my own doing and with each, the more vexed I grew at once again having to pack a bag and leave.

Once the cab crossed the Triborough still harried by the road’s imperfections, my restlessness about my fate seeped through and spoke. It was nothing audible, but it spoke enough to call the drivers attention as he asked in the familiar, “Are you okay buddy?” A nod is all I could manage and as he turned his attention back to the business of steering the cab, the ticking grew louder.

In a few ticks I’ll be on a plane and the pilot, for all his good intentions will build a wall made of miles between me and lazy Saturday mornings in a laughing bed, between me and my hand against smooth caramel skin, between me and moments spent in a sweaty lovetangle. In a few ticks we’ll be back to missed telephone calls and text messages. In a few ticks, again the anguish.

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