Travel objects

One way toward each other.

Folded at the edge of a new map. Ines’s ticket for the 05:40, a single, no return, booked that way on purpose. It lives in the back of the road atlas Tomas keeps in the car, at the page where neither of their home towns quite fits.

Windows down.

Road dust on the hem of the day. Two hundred and thirty-three miles into Oren’s six hours, the fan gave up and the windows came down. On the back seat, the bouquet the florist could not deliver rode in its cellophane, and Jun kept one hand on it at every corner.

Saved for later.

The proof that someone made you a place. Mireille’s key to the ground-floor room, booked in March. She took it home in her handbag by mistake and posted it back a week later with a note: thank you for thinking of my knees.

Editorial note: A work of editorial fiction; people, places and makers are illustrative.