EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE
At last! Maleta felt her owner take a firm grip on her handles, and she was flying again, hoisted from the grim prison of the luggage belt. If she’d had any means of expression, she would have sighed with relief. She loved to fly, but she travelled only to arrive. It was always so dull in the cold unfriendly hold of the plane. Aside from all else, Maleta hated being away from her owner, hated the intolerable emptiness of even a few hours without him, the one true love of her life.
The trunk of the taxi was warm. Maleta smelled exhaust, and felt the bumps as the car left the airport. The sound of the engine was a reassuring purr.
Soon enough, the trunk opened, and Maleta felt herself soaring again in her owner’s hand, swinging freely through the evening air. How she loved him! She felt a fierce pride that of all the holdalls in all the stores in all the world, all those years ago, he had chosen her. She remembered registered the intoxicating smell of him when he came into the store where she’d sat proudly displayed on her shelf for long weeks, dreaming of romance and the life ahead of her. And in that moment she’d fervently wished she had the eyes to see him, the limbs to touch him. It was love at first scent.
If she could have moved, she would have jostled her way off the shelf and into his path, and she’d have jumped up and down to attract his attention. If she could have leapt, she’d have jumped into his arms there and then, and if she’d had arms, she’d have wrapped them around him and never let him go. If she could have spoken, she would have cried: “Me! Pick me! I love you! Pick me!”
In a fugue of excitement she reached out with her tiny mind and tried to send him her signals of desire. Choose me. Choose me.
And somehow it had worked! He had responded to her signals. He’d chosen her, of all bags; they would be together forever now. Indeed, the very next day—such joy!—she was flying; packed with his precious clothes and belongings, filled to the brim with the delicious scent of him, flying across half a continent to new adventures.
Now, her symbiotic loyalty to her soul mate still burned as strongly as ever, her passion undiminished by time and travel.
Maleta nestled in what she guessed was the hallway of his apartment. She was feeling tired after the long journey now, bloated with his stuff. She reached out for him with her mind, sending signals to unpack. This usually worked. But she felt nothing. There was no comforting presence. If she’d had a brow, she would have frowned in consternation. Where was her owner? She hadn’t heard him go out again…
Something was different. Something was wrong. Something didn’t smell right, here. There was an incongruous sweet scent of flowers, and then of animal fur. With a shock, Maleta felt something rub against her smooth flank, and heard a chirruping purr…
A cat.
Her owner didn’t have a cat.
The bottom dropped out of her world. If she’d had a jaw, it would have fallen open; if she’d had a lower lip, it would have trembled. Maleta realised that this—here—was not home at all.
If she’d had a voice, she would have squealed with alarm. What had happened? What had gone wrong? She’d never been parted from him before. There was only one explanation.
She’d been taken. Somebody had her.
She knew she was desirable, else why would he have picked her of all bags? And he was always so protective. He always came for her. But even her owner couldn’t be everywhere all the time. She flashed on the moment when she had flown from the luggage belt. Somebody—a jealous rival perhaps, driven insane by frustrated passion—must have grabbed her when he wasn’t looking. She cursed the gods that had made her so helpless in this world of movement. If she could have moved, she would have run.
Taken! Kidnapped! If she’d had skin, Maleta’s would have shuddered at the thought. She tried to calm herself. Surely her owner would rescue her.
But familiar doubts assailed her. Maleta felt a wave of insecurity rise. Was she truly still desirable? Did he still love her the same way? Lately she’d noticed he had spent less time with her. She’d flown less than she had in the early days, and she missed it, she missed the way things had been. If she’d been able to speak, she’d have asked him outright how he felt about her, whether he still felt the same.
Was she truly worthy of him? Had her owner tired of her, finally? If she’d been able to, she would have wept at the thought. Inside, she did. If he had tired of her, if he had given her away to another, and got himself another holdall—God forbid, a younger model!—she would surely lie down and die.
Lost in despair and panic, it took a moment for Maleta to realise there was a voice speaking nearby. She strained to hear. It was a high pitched voice, quite unlike her owner’s. Another human being of some sort. She clutched at her precious loyalty, pulling herself together. Perhaps he was testing her. Well if so, she would not fail him.
She heard footsteps approaching, and the smell of perfume. The hated other was close now. She felt alien hands on her exterior. If she’d had muscles, Maleta would have shrunk from their touch. Maleta felt something grip her fasteners, and then the familiar buzz of her zipper being opened.
“Shit!” said the high pitched voice. “This isn’t my bag.” She felt the other human’s hands rummaging inside her. A flash of anger and disgust. Maleta felt violated. How dare this human rifle through her owner’s things! How dare they put their filthy hands inside her like this! If Maleta had had a mouth, she’d have shouted with anger; and if she’d had teeth she would have bitten the intruder’s hands off right there and then.
And then another flood of relief, as the words registered; no, of course her owner would never let her go. It must be a simple mistake.
The stranger’s hands withdrew. “Oh well. Better take it back to the airport tomorrow.” The sound of footsteps receding.
If Maleta had had a heart, it would have swelled with pleasure. Back to the airport! Back to him! Oh, the anticipation. They would fly again, after all. But how could she stand another night without him? Parting was such sweet sorrow! She knew she wouldn’t sleep tonight, and even if she did she’d dream of his hands on her handles, the scent of him, the thrill of anticipation as he once again packed her for a journey. She’d dream of flying. She could hardly wait to be reunited.
Maleta wondered if he was missing her. She imagined how he must be crying, wailing, gnashing his teeth in pain and confusion and loss. Perhaps he thought she’d left him? He must be brokenhearted.
Good, she thought, with a sudden flash of insight. Let him miss her for a while. He’d appreciate her all the more, then. He’d pay more attention now. What had she heard the humans say? Absence makes the heart grow fonder. She cherished the thought.
Yes. This would surely only make their relationship stronger.