Going Home

The waitress hadn’t left a pen for me to sign the bill so I dug one out of my bag. It was a white Bic; I got it in Tokyo. It said WESTIN TOKYO on the side. I tried to think about that trip and that hotel but it didn’t work. I put the pen back in my bag. A travel bag is good that way, like a good jacket. You’d find all sorts of shit in it, stubs of theatre tickets or a playbill, receipts, maybe some old matches. Loose ties to those things that you had forgotten.