Waiting

Kat stares at the little black device. It has two compartments; she fills them and waits. The two LED lights are a taunting red. She needs to go, but she can't until the light turns green.

From the couch, Jake says, "my mom always told me that a watched pot never boils. Not the same, but the concept still applies, methinks." He's reading the paper in his pajamas, his feet up on the coffee table.

Kat glowers and nods, her face is stoic and her shoulders are straight. The light would change when it changes. In the meantime, there are other things that need to be done. With newfound determination, she looks for a distraction.

In the laundry room, she sorts clothes into piles: colors and whites. Her mind wanders to the day ahead and the journey that awaits her. The long drive on winding mountain roads and a long fall on either side. She starts the washer, sets it to cold, and leaves the other pile for later.

Back in the living room, she glares at the tiny lightbulbs and its cherry eyes. With a huff, she stomps into the kitchen and loads the dishwasher. With each dirty plate she makes clean, she dreams of lakes and trails, of a clear blue sky above her. With every washed bowl, she yearns for the smell of pine trees.

Peering around the wall, careful not to startle it, she checks the charger. Her heart pounds in her chest and her nails scratch against the plaster. Red.

She paints her toenails a glittery rose. It is a waste of time, she knows, soon she'll roll a wool sock over them, smudging the polish across her digits and staining the fabric. But it's something to do and it serves its purpose; she was amused for a solid three minutes. She stands up.

She paces through the room, turning suddenly on occasion to surprise the thing, but it remains unperturbed. Red.

She runs on the treadmill and throws a ball for the dog. She scratches the kitten's ears. She grabs her new mystery novel and puts it right back down. She dares a glance. Red.

She drapes herself across Jake's lap and sighs.

"Kat, really? Get it together! Why don't you organize the spice rack or something?" Jake looks down at her, his lips pressed together, eyebrows knitted. His newspaper is wrinkled. Her elbow is deforming the sports section.

"Why don't you organize the spices?" She asks as she trudges back into the kitchen.

Sitting on a stool, propping her chin up with one hand, she rotates the rotating spice rack. She pulls out each glass jar and reads the expiration date. From rosemary to saffron, not a single one requires refreshing. She lets her forehead hit the counter like a teenager and studies her fingers.

Somewhere, beyond those four walls, an adventure calls her. By the pond, deer graze lazily and chipmunks scurry from trunk to trunk. Fishermen throw their lines and children find colorful rocks. Kat should be there. She should be following a shaded path to unknown places. She should be kneeling on the forest floor, gravel digging into her knees, taking pictures of spotted red mushrooms.

But she can't. The light is still red.

She lays down on the rug and gazes out of the sliding glass door, watching the clouds float by. She picks at the carpet fibers and tugs at her black curls. She rolls onto her belly and back again, making pitiful noises, moans and whimpers in Jake's general direction.

"Kat, stop acting like a two-year-old! Just take the car adapter and charge your camera batteries on the way."

Kat is still for a moment. Thinking. Then she arches her back and presses the top of her head into the floor, looking at him upside-down.

"My God. You're a genius!" She collects her keys and gear and skips out of the house.

In her jeep, with windows down, the fresh air whips her hair back against the seat. White aspens wave hello in the evening breeze and birds chirp in their branches. The light turns green at last, just before she reaches the alpine trailhead.