Disclaimers: The usual ones (I do not own the characters and I do this for fun)

The suitcase

Chapter 1: Small bites

The window is starting to fog up, a little more with every breath she exhales, and the lights of downtown Los Angeles turn into diffused stars. She has been standing here, mesmerized by the view since she entered the hotel room. The glass is cold under her forehead. She follows the lights, randomly popping on, as the corporate world dances its night time ballet; business men and women, leaving their offices to be replaced by cleaning crews and security guards on their rounds.

She has been gazing at L.A.'s financial district for hours now.

And yet, were she to close her eyes, she couldn't jut down on paper a single detail of the buildings she's been staring at, not even sketch the city's skyline. Her eyes are focused on a point past the glass and metal of the nearby skyscrapers.

The weight of her totem in the palm of her hand is right. She drags the pad of her thumb over the tiny indentation only she knows she carved under the bishop's miter. She needs this constant reassurance she is not dreaming. But she isn't strong enough at the same time to deal with reality. That's what she's telling herself. She doesn't want to acknowledge the enormity of what she has just lived through. She wishes she could keep fogging her mind, like she can cloud the hotel windowpanes. If she stops dazing herself, if she allows her senses to come back on-line, she is afraid reality will crush her, pound her to dust.

Small steps. No, small bites, she thinks. Yes, that's it, small bites. That's how she will set to work on digesting the past two months.

She straightens her neck, righting herself up, and slowly turns around. She takes in the soft lighting, the reflective surface of the polished desk, the bright spot of color on the bed. The Kyoto Grand's interior designer has skillfully injected a few Japanese touches in the room. The crisp white linen, bared with a narrow red bedspread is such an example. She lets her eyes wander over the discreetly modern wall paper, the smooth leather armchair, the lustrous sheen of the damask love-seat. The room is all contrasting textures. She could read the story weaved around her with the tip of her fingers. She smiles. This is a decor she could have dreamed herself. She feels comfortable here. A crooked smile, lips curling ever so slightly at the corner flashes through her mind. A hot wave bursts low in her belly and nearly overpowers her as it rushes up through her, knocking her breath out.

She shakes her head slowly. Small bites, remember, small bites, she repeats as a mantra.

Her eyes rove the room and settle on the suitcase. It is resting on the plush rug, where the bellboy left it. The suitcase. Her suitcase. She sighs. His suitcase.

She can start with that.

I didn't set out to write context-free fluff, so this story starts on a somewhat sober note.

I can't imagine Ariadne stepping out of the plane, after a 10-hour flight, completing her first work assignment (she is still a student, and working for the first time IS stressful), and of course, living through an incredibly intense experience without feeling utterly tired and confused. After a transatlantic flight, I always feel in a fog: my body is of the world, but my mind is playing catch-up. It usually lasts until I can sleep for the night.

This said, the story starts on a gloomier note than what I had in mind. Good thing is: it won't stay that way too long. ;)