I was on holiday again, almost out of season this time. It was a seaside town in Maine, but not the one my parents used to take me to, or the one where I met the girl. It was quaint and wooden, and ye olde tea shoppes everywhere, but almost everything was closed. I might have been the only outlander.
It was beginning to rain when I got out of the street into the dimly lit lobby of the hotel. The front desk was unmanned. An old lady was having coffee by the window, reading a book. I had figured she was either the owner, or the owner’s wife. Either way, she always ignored me completely. I considered climbing the stairs when I got this strange thought. What if I am only dreaming and none of it is real. The town, the hotel, the lady, all figments of my sleepy imagination. Suddenly, I could no longer picture the way into the parking lot and to my car. Home was just an empty word now and, for a sweet, sweet second, I was hanging in the grey nothingness of freedom.