He put his cigarette out on her suitcase. The embers melted through and branded the leather. She wasn’t coming back. He walked through the hallways in his head and still couldn’t find the note, the reason; the elusive truth.
He went to the bedroom, no note there, the bedroom was just as it had always been, perfect. The sheets were tumbled and the curtains drawn. He hesitated for a moment, looking through the room, through the sheets, watching her back stretch across the bed as she pulled something from her pants pockets, as he waited beneath her, she pulled out, ah, a joint. She looked at him and smiled and lay back not changing her position. Her body stretched for miles and the hills and valleys that the shadows played on her skin poured out and down into her neck. He could see her chin and one hand holding the joint to her lips, her lips, goddamn her mouth. He shut the door to the bedroom; there was no fucking reason in here.
Once again he found himself in the halls, some doors were locked, many rooms they had never been in together. Perhaps the note was in one of those rooms, and if so he had no idea how he would ever find them. She had no keys to these rooms and short of materializing in them he could not imagine she would have made her way inside.
Oh he was going insane over this. His logic demanded of her, a reason. But she was gone now and he couldn’t demand something from someone who wasn’t there. He could but realized how futile it would prove concerning the probability of a positive outcome of such speculations. He was alone. She had left him a suitcase he couldn’t unlock, a reminder of her, a mystery just as she had been. The suitcase had his disgust burnt right in it. The smell made him sick. He wanted to vomit.
And just as he threw it overboard the train, out the goddamn window he realized, the note had been in there.