5-hour Blink of an Eye

The alarm rings. 

5:30 AM.  

Pitch black.

The stranger in the bed across the mediocre hotel room shuffles and turns over.  I grab my jeans and contacts and navigate blindly to the bathroom.  

Close the door.

Flip on the lights.

My widely dilated pupils shrink quickly. I shut my eyes for respite.

Brush my teeth.

Wash my face.

Slow zombie movements.

Back in the room, the open bathroom illuminates my things.  Grab my bag.  My laptop.  Wallet.  Keys.  The stranger shuffles again.  Loaded up, I close the door behind me.

Outside, the air still holds the chill of last night.  The sunlight dim over the haze that covers the El Segundo parking lot.  Electricity hums loudly in the wires hung overhead.  Dew lays lightly on the skin of the fellow vehicles  in the lot.  

I load up and jump into the driver's seat.

Lights on.

Slide into gear.

Foot to pedal.

Go.