Swathed in a Tunic

He pushed her onto a shuttle bus, the one they had been waiting for seemingly an excruciating period of time, that had finally made it’s way to stop on the small gravel road that ran through the small town of Santa Teresa, Costa Rica en route to the airport.

They had agreed, after all, that a few weeks of separation would be best, considering the recent fights that never seemed to be resolved, and the most recent implosion that seemed to throw them off course so far that there seemed to be no way to patch it up.

She cried desperately, clinging to him, as he pushed her inside. He face was red and puffy from the torrent of tears that had poured from her eyes over the past few days, and especially the fresh ones in that excruciating moment of separation.

Thus, she had been abandoned, literally pushed onto a shuttle bus in a third world country with a broken toe and a heart condition without her meds. Her only plan was to board a plan in two days for another third world country. It was a flight he had booked for her, desperate to get away.

She was wearing some version of shorts and a t-shirt, covered by an oversized beach cover-up tunic that she had purchased the night before from a boutique after they had been caught in the rain and she had nothing warm to wear. He had demanded that instead of changing clothing at their hilltop hotel, that they spend their last evening at a hostel hotel bar. Her mind briefly brought up that memory of purchasing the cover-up, and the scoff that arose from his mouth when he learned that it was expensive. She also remembered how difficult it was for her to make casual conversation with the young Chilean woman who surrounded her. After all, he had let her know that his preference was to join in with young hostel people rather than spend time in her company. Her brain had struggled to process the shift. They had come to the town - her favorite place in the world - with the idea of considering purchasing property. And instead, he had discarded her.

The shuttle bus door closed, and she set off. Her brain was a scramble. Her foot was swollen from the recent toe break. Her heart was pounding, not contained by her heart medication that somehow had gotten mixed into his things. During the long ride, all she could do was swath herself in the tunic cover-up as some way of feeling a sense of comfort and warmth.

Months later, after she had somehow survived a solo trip in another foreign third world country at the lowest point of her entire life and in that time, found a way to hike a volcano with her physical and emotional limitations for the sheer purpose of showing herself that her will to survive would overcome any obstacle even though she limped for hours. And after the call where he told her their ties would be severed forever, leaving her feeling the most crippled she had ever felt. The most empty she had ever felt. And then had found her way back to her home city of NYC, found herself in the apartment they had meant to share together, and then someone found herself taking on a big promotion, buying an apartment, creating her life afresh.

Ahead of a planned holiday to a beach vacation, she rummaged through a box to pull out items to wear, and she came across the oversized shirt that had swathed her in the most desperate of times. She smelled it, and noted that it still smelled of that boutique in Costa Rica that she had purchased it from. She put it on. She looked at herself in the mirror, and smiled. She turned on music, and then she danced.