The summer heat makes her sweat through her clothes, the fabric gluing to her skin. She tugs her jacket off, wrapping the sleeves around her waist. The tips of her blonde bangs stick to her clammy forehead but she makes no move to adjust her hair despite the slight discomfort.

Country folk music plays softly from the speakers of her old, cheap, rusty convertible. Wendy eases the car to a stop, the engine coughing in pain. Flecks of paint come off every time she accidentally scrapes her nails against its frame. Despite so, it is still a sturdy car, albeit its age.

She turns the music up a little higher, pushing herself up to sit on the hood. The ends of her flannel jacket flaps in the wind and she digs out a sunglass from her pocket. Her vision darkens as she puts it on, letting herself lie against the car’s unpolished windscreen.

Occasionally, a few folks pass by her, giving her a few looks before continuing their way. It might seem weird to them because no one ever visits this place. The place is barren, tucked away, and planted with windmills which generate electricity for the city. With her Ray-Bans and ankle boots, she looks terribly out of place, like she hasn’t traded her city fashion for the countryside.

She has always been out of place anyway, even in the city she grew up in.

Her “friends” or acquaintances call her a nomad but she has never thought of herself as a drifter. The people she finds somewhat familiar tell her that she wanders and she is unable to settle. Wendy lets out a dry laugh at the words that have burned into the back of her mind.

Home.

There is no such place and if only they knew better.

///

As she drives further, more signs of civilization pop up. There are motels and apartments for rent that look somewhat deserted. Unlit signs litter the sides of the road, with few people out and about. They stare at her – a foreign face, a newcomer. It is a quaint little town where everyone knew their neighbour’s friends, unlike the big city where everyone was just a passing face.

She stops for gas, parking her car next to a filling station before getting out of the car. While waiting for the tank to fill up, she enters a nearby convenience store, feeling the cold air hit her as soon as she steps in. It is a welcome relief and she looks for something to take the summer heat off. Grabbing a popsicle, she drops some change on the counter, the cashier shooing her away in order to continue his afternoon nap.

The town is peaceful and quiet and nothing like the city. Wendy should have expected it but the difference is rather astounding.

She drives pass a motel which catches her eye. Summer Night Motel is in large and capitalized print and she figures it is a fitting name, making a u-turn to enter the compound.

///

She finds herself at the front desk of the motel and the front-desk receptionist is sleeping. (Does everyone in this town take afternoon naps?) The motel doesn’t look too shabby; it’s definitely not five stars but Wendy thinks this will do. She presses the bell in hopes of waking the receptionist up but the brunette doesn’t even stir. The girl’s dark brown hair is spilled all over the counter messily as she rests her head on her arms. Sighing, she reaches over the counter and taps the girl twice on the shoulder firmly. The girl jolts before rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

“Welcome, how may I help you?” she yawns her question, eyes squeezed shut.

“Do you have a room to spare?” Wendy asks, a little amused by how everyone is sleepy in this sleepy town.

“ID.”

She sifts through her wallet before getting out her ID card and sliding it over. The girl takes it and brings out a large and thick notebook. She only flips to the first page and starts writing down Wendy’s personal details. Wendy notes the barely filled page, wondering how the motel is still running despite the lack of customers.

“How many nights are you staying?”

“One.”

“Backpacking?” the receptionist lazily smiles and she looks strangely attractive despite how sloppy she presents herself.

“No, just living.”

“So you’re one of those flighty people who travel a lot?”

There are lots of things Wendy can say, like how things are transient and nothing lasts forever, despite how cliché it may sound. She almost resents the smile on the receptionist’s face, like she’s mocking her. Wendy wonders why she thought that the people here would be different from the city. Explaining is not worth her time, so she simply nods and agrees.

“If you wish to put it that way.”

“Forty-five per night. It is what it is, Wendy. You travel. That’s all I’m saying. I’m Irene, by the way,” the receptionist shrugs, taking the bills Wendy handed to her.

“Okay,” she drops the topic, accepting the keys to her room.

“Do you want dinner later? I’m cooking mac and cheese and it’s not half bad, unlike what my mom likes to claim,” Irene offers.

She doesn’t see any harm in accepting the invitation so she does, smiling her thanks.

“You should smile more, Wendy. It looks better on you than that eternal frown.”

Okay.

Okay.

///

It is a dingy motel room that has a mini fridge, a mini safe, and a mini television set. She turns the tv on absent-mindedly, and there’s only static on every channel. She turns the thing off, disliking the static. She supposes the silence feels better than the noise. Even so, she feels desolate, like she has managed to escape a prison, only to realize that she’s still enclosed and caged in. The only difference is that her cage is bigger.

The mirror in her room is stained and dull. When she looks at her own distorted reflection, she sees a stranger frowning back at her. It’s getting harder to believe that the girl in the mirror is herself.

Perhaps she was stupid when she thought that leaving the city was a good decision. To be fair, it had seemed like a perfectly sane move to make at that point of time to Wendy. But now, she feels more lost than ever, having lost the guidance and rhythm of the busyness city life provided her with. Her friends said that she was mad when she left with her life packed into a small suitcase.

Maybe they were right.

///

“You’re late.”

Irene wags a finger in disapproval as Wendy makes her way to the counter. The girl slots her hand into Wendy’s naturally and pulls her to the pantry, where said “not half bad” mac and cheese awaits. She sits Wendy down, bringing her the utensils and sitting across her. As she takes the first bite, Irene leans forward impatiently, eyes fixed on Wendy.

“So how is it?”

Wendy is pleasantly surprised by the taste but she thinks she probably set the bar too low. She nods her approval, wearing a lopsided smile.

“It’s not half bad.”

Irene smiles like a child showered with praise, “My mom needs to hear this.”

The receptionist starts to dig in as well, obviously proud that someone is able to tolerate her cooking.  Wendy expects some small talk about the weather but she doesn’t get it.

“So tell me, what is it like to live in the city?”

It doesn’t take Wendy long to realize that Irene is a nosy (but pretty) receptionist.

“High rise buildings. Lots of Starbucks. Expensive.”

She thinks she summarised city life pretty well but Irene just sighs disappointedly.

“I’m not talking about those things. I can see those things on tv,” Irene dismisses t