Panorama

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Louis wakes up to the alarm clock buzzing incessantly on the nightstand. It's 6:15. He never used to be a morning person, but irregular sleeping schedules, early mornings and late nights, are things he has long since become accustomed to.

He reaches over, slapping the clock quiet before rolling over on his back and using a minute to stretch his muscles. It takes him a moment to collect his surroundings, sluggishly trying to remember which city he is in. He could probably be anywhere; Sydney, Miami, New York City, Tokyo, Moscow... no place he hasn't already encountered in one way or another.

It's a while before his mind clears of the sleepy fogginess, finally recalling landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport the previous night. Paris. He has some strange memories from this city, but it was years ago now.

He rolls out of bed, making a beeline for the bathroom. It's relatively small, but shines cleanly and seems newly renovated — the usual standard at airport hotels. He quickly lets the shower rain away the smells of booze, smoke, and boy off him, taking the fatigue clinging at his limbs with it. He gently scrubs his scalp with unscented shampoo from one of the miniature bottles provided by the hotel, before rinsing his body off with soap.

He gets out after only a few minutes, the quick motions stuck in his bones, body moving per automatism. It's a habit nowadays, in and out.

He steps out into the small-spaced hotel room, white towel with the logo on tied around his waist. He brings out his navy blue suitcase, and opens it on the bed. His things are neatly packed, but the bag looks rather empty as his work attire is already hanging from the mirror in a plastic bag, just like he left it last night before leaving to spend a few hours out in the city, taking advantage of the French clubs until late, and stumbling back into bed at 2AM. His suitcase only holds his toiletries, electronic devices, passport, and similar items. He doesn't need more than a few changes of clothes, as the upcoming route isn't a particularly long one.

He finds his vanity bag, and in the bathroom he fetches his shaving cream, the razor, and additionally his toothbrush. He shaves, careful as he regards at himself through the mirror. He's mindful around the edges, over his thin upper lip, the chin, and his strong, albeit marginally rounded, jawline. Once he's done he blow-dries his hair with the drier attached to the wall, before combing it into a small quiff-ish do, the short fringe falling slightly to the side. He dotes some concealer under his eyes, smoothly erasing the traces of the less than glamorous night.

He dresses quickly, legs fitting into the dark blue slacks and arms into the white dress shirt. The vest goes on top, lighter blue tie around his neck, and lastly the jacket, matching his trousers perfectly. He adjusts the tie in front of the mirror, squaring his shoulders, pursing his lips. It will do.

He packs his things, neatly putting everything back into the small suitcase, zips up and soon leaves the hotel room to take the lift down to the small lobby. Louis checks out of the hotel at the front desk, paying with the black card provided by his company, then trudges directly out into the brightly lit airport.

That's one thing that has always struck him as odd about airports. No matter what time it is, midnight or noon, everything is always crystal clear. Trapped in here you wouldn't know day from night.

Louis sometimes feels like his life is a bit like an airport. He does spend a rather large quantity of time in them, but the point is: he doesn't always know in and out, what's up and what's down. He supposes it comes with the life of being a flight attendant. You're married to your work, you live in planes and unknown cities, never truly at home, never really having time to get to know the place you're in. You're locked inside the airport from what's going on outside in the real world.