The clock on my phone read 5:47.
Thirteen minutes.
I zipped my bag, checked the contents out of habit. Three shirts, two pairs of pants, one novel I had read approximately six pages of across the entire weekend, toiletries in a plastic grocery bag that looked deeply out of place next to the monogrammed hand towels in the bathroom. The canvas duffel sat on the luggage stand looking exactly as tragic as it had Friday evening, unbothered by the experience of spending a weekend surrounded by things that cost more than my rent.
I took one last look at the guest suite.
The fireplace was off now. The mini-fridge still had two of those expensive sparkling waters I had not touched because drinking anything from that fridge felt like a trap. The bed was made, which I had done myself at seven this morning out of pure reflex because I have been making my own bed since I was eight years old and some habits do not care about your current zip code.
