FRIDAY, APRIL 1
We ordered breakfast from room service. The bacon is fatty and the eggs are so finely scrambled that it feels like a semi-liquid on my tongue. Afterwards, I sit on the couch, exhilarated by my freedom. There are no diapers to change, no bottles to clean, no need to plaster a smile on my face. I can do anything I want! I sit on the couch, immobilized by my freedom.
We walk the deck and the view is virtually the same as from our balcony, only larger: nothing but water. At first, it seems existential, transcendental, but soon it becomes the source of my headache, the pain in my temples throbbing in unison with the waves.
We invariably migrate towards the cafe, drawn by boredom and the concept that we would be wasting our money if we didn’t take advantage of the free buffet. We fill our plates once, twice, three times, spurred by our American mentalities. A woman whose nametag reads “Anka, Ukraine” takes our dishes away each time. I think about my studies of her homeland and the high volume of prostitutes there.
When we get back to our room we find that our sheets have been changed, our belongings arranged, the box of condoms discreetly put into the nightstand drawer. Embarrassment, invasion, guilt.
The novelty has already worn off.
To be continued…