![]() ![]() The vents are all open, a cold air, the coldest air a human made machine can manufacture is blasted over me. My two back seat companions whisper small talk while I watch the scenery pass and listen to the radio blasting Gloria Gaynor. But it is a common part of our everyday language which I realize now sounds foreign to everybody else. An inside joke Craig and I made up what feels like a millennia ago. “I guess we are all just a bunch of empty biscuits.” So, I turn to the guy sitting next to me, who gives me a blank look and shrugs. I ask how many others we will be picking up along the way. An advertisement for condoms is blasting. He looks sad, but doesn’t dare to come outside. He’s gotten rid of the thing in his nose. I can see Craig watching me from the apartment window. #Opening an account in the site whistle phone driverThe driver helps me load my bags in the back. They both introduce themselves, but I don’t hear either of them really. There are only two other people in the van so far besides the driver. I expect that about ten miles outside of Seattle, just before we reach the airport, I will start to really feel it. Oh well, it must not be time yet for feelings of relief. Strangely, the air feels more stagnant than expected. On the steps, bags by my sides, I wait for the breeze to blow and the proverbial weight to lift off my shoulders. Too bad, there’s enough of it in the cupboard to supply an army of old ladies for the next three years. He hates my tea, claims he’s allergic to jasmine. Its sound is shrill, worse than the kettle. No sounds to muffle what he’s said to me. I just need one moment of our eyes meeting to feel okay with leaving. The spoon twirls around and against the sides, making that familiar monotonous clang clang sound. I say it again, the clanking of the metal spoon against the mug obscures me. His nose, a pointed snout decorated with a bright red bulb. The one with the etching of the deranged little brown rabbit on it who looks like he was drawn by some medieval gentleman who had never seen a rabbit in real life. He hesitates in front of the cupboard, pulls out my favorite mug. Not really, I won’t be coming here again. The little piece of snot just hangs there, begging to be talked about. He slides a clenched fist along his mustache, missing his nose. ![]() I’ve wondered every day of my life whether he feels them, because given how long they remain, it would seem he does not. And I’ve grown and learned from my mistakes, even if slowly.īat in the cave. Aside from an expedition to Mars, I couldn’t rocket myself further from him. Getting away to the ends of the earth is not figurative in this case. That the same girl would suddenly submit herself for six months selflessly to anything, especially something adventurous in nature seems preposterous. The girl who once found a little envelope on the street outside a restaurant containing cash and a label that said, “Angela’s Tips”, and promptly spent all the money on a new outfit at the outlet next door. The girl who skipped out on meals on wheels Thanksgiving Day so that she could sit in bed with boxed wine and mashed potatoes. Maybe my mother is right, I act too superior. They put them in the category of suspense, but I have yet to watch an episode in which there was even a whiff of the element of surprise. Buildings such as that are always in abundance on these shows. A bunch of men shouting at each other to go to hell while they run through what looks like an old abandoned hospital. A shootout is occurring on one of those obnoxious programs he is so enamored with. I’ve been warning him ever since of my new dream, a threat he has been all too happy to dismiss as fluff. We watched that documentary about the people who work in Antarctica exactly one year ago. He was so absorbed in the television screen, he hadn’t even noticed when I started dragging them out. But the transport van will be here any minute, and my bags are already on the front porch. He tells me this must be some kind of joke. I am tempted to tell him there is no colder place than our shared bedroom, even during this warm and mild October. Immediate protests of all kinds, but he finally comes to the strongest objection he can cook up,Ī fairly obvious observation. It’s too late for me to cry over the many hours wasted. A step made five years too late, that’s my style for most things. Like there isn’t an alarm that will be going off on my phone in the next hour congratulating me on making the biggest step in my adult life. To tell him this while making my usual cup of tea, casually, as though I didn’t have this planned for the last ten months, seems fitting. He still hasn’t heard, and is miserable at reading lips. I didn’t even bother to take the kettle off, I let it whistle as I repeat myself. ![]()
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