CLICK

I. I was sitting at the bar. I swirled the thin stem of my martini glass between my fingers, finishing off my third martini in an hour. The murmur of a hundred conversations in a dozen languages swirled around my ears like the current of a river. I set down the glass, and waving off the bartender, half-hopped, half-fell off the barstool. I started to walk across the lobby to the door, trying to walk more or less in a straight line. I stopped in front of the full–length mirror. I tugged at my white satin corset top and buttoned my black satin jacket. Ugh, I’ve gained weight. My heels clack on the floor like horse hooves… My blue eyes peered back at me critically from the mirror. I tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. The rest of my long, black hair was up in a bun. I leaned in close to check for hateful gray hairs. My attention turned from my reflection back to the lobby. I peered through the mirror at everyone mulling around. The lobby was thick with people in tuxedos and black gowns waiting for the American and Syrian motorcades to arrive so the partying could officially begin. It was an oasis of European culture in the midst of a burned-out Middle East. The newly christened and baptized–by–fire Secretary of State was in Damascus asserting a new administration’s already thread–bare promises to the region. Everyone else was there to forget their dusty lives for one night. Usually, I thrived in these situations. I could mingle, ask questions and laugh with the politicians and glitterati, all while snapping pictures and scribbling pages of notes. Tonight, I was suffocating. I needed fresh air. Toby, my personal fan club, trotted up behind me. I could always smell him a mile away. His breath reeked of falafel dripping with extra garlic and good German beer. His short stature was made up for by his athletic build, honey-colored features and out-going personality. He was always tan, quite a feat for a New Yorker. His dark blondish–brown hair and goatee were always perfectly groomed. “Hey, I just heard the motorcade is stuck in traffic. I wonder if one of the limos ran over a camel or something,” he laughed at his own joke. “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “You look great,” he said, sizing me up with one fell swoop of the eyes. “Uh-huh,” I rolled my eyes. “I need air,” I said, walking toward the door. “Me too,” he said and followed me. “Great, you go to the left, I’ll go to the right.” “Aw, come on Shelby, let me walk with you. It’s dark and it’s Muslim country, you’re liable to be kidnapped,” he said sweetly, batting his eyelashes at me. “Besides, I need to talk to you.” He grabbed my arm and suddenly turned serious. I turned to look squarely at him. “I’m going to walk through the gardens, down by the well–lit and gated pool. I think I can handle it.” I took his hand off my forearm. . . . “They already boarded first-class. You can go ahead and board the plane. Have a nice trip,” she said, smiling. “Thanks, always nice to see someone in New York smiling,” I said. I boarded the plane and after stowing away my bag I went into the cramped lavatory. I grabbed what little bits of counter top there were and hung on like the plane was riding severe turbulence. Only we hadn’t moved yet. I stared in the mirror and tried to recognize myself. Twenty-four hours earlier I’d been fighting off the beginning stages of a mid-life crisis. My biggest worry was being tired and my surprising, waning love of journalism. Now I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see straight. I turned on the water. The sad little stream was, at least, cold. I pushed up my sleeves and thrust my hands into the water, letting it run over and through my fingers, under my fingernails and down over my wrists. I cupped my hands together tightly and splashed the tiny pools of water on my face. Streams of water started running down my forearms. Two little waterfalls cascaded off my elbows and created puddles on the floor. I kept splashing. Over and over. I was soaked, but didn’t feel any better…any cleaner. I was trying to wash away blood that wasn’t there.