Sometimes the next best thing is to start over. She tells herself that so many times a day that she really was starting to believe it. Starting over, forever fearing in the sameness of daily life. Always leaving, wandering through the wild, wide world with no safe, settled place of her own. She was forever fearing that dullness, grayness of everyday boredom of work and homestead. She never really experienced it, she was leaving to soon, to wander, to run, to flee that life. What kind of life, she murmured, to die young. To suffer, to have that bland deadness of eye, of touch. Why would she suffer herself that. Besides, she could never stay long enough before it happened. Those towns, villages, waysides. It happened once, twice, thrice as many times she could no longer keep accurate count. How many times. How many places. The wandering would continue until she had no where left to wander to. Cold, hungry, bone tired and weary, she stepped over the threshold of the pub. Smoke drifted out the door and light struggled in. Many heads lifted as she came in. Beer soaked beards. Watery eyes and soggy chins. Dirty glasses and greasy smells of bad food smacked her senses. Same pub as before, different name, different place, still same. She walked straight to the kitchens. She knew where the owner would be. Let the negotiations begin.