I was the luckiest girl in the world. I couldn’t wipe the smile of my face as I glanced in the mirror and assessed my made up face. I giggled as I tried to recall the last evening I spent in my own abode. I came up with a blank. The tingle on my lips and toes prompted my memory from the previous evening; dinner, followed by live music and wine, and an inability to keep our clothes on as soon as we closed his apartment door. I sighed as I rummaged through my toiletries bag. The feeling of trepidation built in the pit of my stomach. I yanked each item out of the toiletries bag. Somehow I knew my hairbrush was not there. I glared at the production line of makeup and moisturisers on the vanity. “Damn it!” I said to myself. Suddenly I recall my last encounter with the said hairbrush. I clearly pictured the exact spot my hairbrush laid dormant on my dresser like an Icelandic volcano. I glanced in the mirror at my once shiny straight style of last night now flailed around my ears and frizzed around the top of my head in a vigorous attempt at a human’s birds nest. My colleagues would take one look at me and know what I had been up to last night. I forced my fingers through the stressed deadlocks to form a topknot at the top of my head as I giggled once again.
Living in transit had its perks; toe curling kisses and those precious moments when he guided my head into his chest and made my cheek snuggle into his chest, like we were made for each other. There were also those times I yearned for my own bed and shower. And yet, I feel so blessed to know we were on the same page about our future. The expiration date of this transit life was in 6 months.
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