Lindy Martel never seemed to quite know what she was doing, traveling here, there, visiting old friends, with no particular agenda except for a need to not feel as erratic as she sometimes did when people asked her what she was up to. Sometimes she said "I am Madame Merle," but hardly anyone got the literary reference.
Lindy knew she had a problem with settling down; she'd always had it except for a seven year stint on a job though even with that she left midway and went off to Los Angles, stayed a year and came back to the job only to leave after three years for San Francisco, restless and fearless.
It wasn't until Lindy's last birthday that she began to doubt herself, her modus operandi, her inability to stay in one place for more than a couple of years, her inability to sustain relationships even though she was often unable to wholly support herself.
These thoughts began playing havoc with her nervous system, giving her a roiling pain in the stomach and an influx of hot flashes brought on by tension from thinking about all the ways she went wrong in her life, where she would end up and how to live getting on in age. Did she really want to continue this vagabond song?
This was Lindy's emotional state while waiting to board another flight, her mother's lecture of that morning clouding her mind, making her doubt her latest plan which was precarious and beyond reason; or so she reasoned.
Her flight was called and as Lindy got out her boarding pass, she heard them say New York and her mother's worrisome call of that morning left her, and with a skip in her step, she handed over her boarding pass and began to think about what she would do later that evening, who she would call, where she would eat; she couldn't wait to get there once again.
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