shorthand

She drew maps by the window in her room, sometimes stopping to crush an ant that crawled across her desk. She really needed to stop eating food in her room. The wall aside her bed was papered with maps; she had even drawn the lines for Europe onto the wall with pencil, with the intention of filling in Asia and then Africa. Her landlord would hardly approve, she was certain, but Alexandra couldn't bring herself to care. In fact, she was quite looking forward to the red glow of his face and his angry hand gestures. They reminded her of his orgasm face. She sighed, finishing the curve of France into Belgium. That dip was her very favorite part of Europe, above even the broken line of Norway's western coast.

Alexandra had never been to Europe, and she'd certainly never been to Asia, Africa, or any of other continents. Her very rich friends had all taken trips to Europe after college had ended, and the especially rich had taken trips to Africa. They'd all returned wearing scarves around their necks even when inside, and sighing together over days spent drinking cool drinks in outdoor cafes. Alexandra didn't speak much to them anymore. Perhaps it was because she didn't own any scarves save the woolen monstrosity her grandmother had knit her two winters ago. It was made of alpaca.

A knock came at the door. That would be Tony. He was a big teddy bear of a man she had met in a local Italian restaurant. She'd been with friends, and they'd all giggled and tittered over his tie and shiny shoes, regardless of the fact that every other waiter in the place had been wearing the same thing. Tony hadn't been Tony then, and the girls had spent all evening calling out male names as he walked by, trying to get him to react to one. He never did. While leaving, Alexandra approached the counter, tapped Tony on the shoulder, and asked him his name. He smiled. "Tony," he said, as if asking her a question.

Alexandra hadn't expected to see him ever again, but they ran into each other at the supermarket in the alcohol aisle and fell into bed that night. Tony wasn't very smart, she discovered, but that didn't matter when the lights were dimmed and all one needed was to not feel so alone.

Her pencil snapped on the paper, and she sighed, pushing her map off the desk to land on the floor. Probably on an ant nest too, she thought, before slamming her head onto the desk. Something rattled and another something fell to the floor and smashed. She had to stop that too--she'd lost too many tea mugs to slamming her head on her desk.

Five months later, Alexandra was in Canada. Her landlord had family there, and he couldn't bear to go along. Please Alexandra, he had begged. He hardly needed to put so much effort into asking; it's not as if she had anything else to do. Her bags were packed that night, and she flew the 293 miles to Toronto with a man whose favorite color she didn't know. He didn't have a favorite movie, she knew that much. Who didn't have a favorite movie? Everyone had a favorite movie, except maybe the hobbits who lived in caves and danced after rings.

Canada was perfectly ordinary. Everyone spoke English, and Alexandra found herself forgetting that she was in a foreign country at all. She was in a park one morning, having escaped the stuffy dryness of her landlord's bedroom, with the hopes of catching the sunrise. A map of Europe spread into the dirt before her, before she angrily spit on it. Her own metaphor disgusted her. She was trying too hard, and she vowed to rip down every map as soon as she returned home. She had been right about her landlord's reaction to the drawing of Europe. He had gotten all red in the face and angrily waved his hands, but he didn't seem to mind as much ten minutes later when they were tossing in the sheets. She had smiled then and kissed his hair, loving his predictability.

She wished she had predictability now. If life were practicable, Canada would be exotic and enticing, just as she had expected. Instead, she was in a park watching the same old sun rise over the same old horizon, drawing the same map of Europe that she drew every other day of her life. The map of Europe never changed. The dip of France into Belgium was always the same, and the western cost of Norway always looked as if it'd been torn apart by a rabid dog. If only life could be predictable. No, if only it weren't so predictable! She spit again on her dirt drawing and then danced over the ground until Spain became France and Russia ate all the rest of Europe