I.
I don’t do my laundry. Instead, I shove everything into the duffel bag, huck the bag into the back of a Subaru, watch as it disappears into the belly of a plane. In Seattle I smile as it slides back into my hands.
“I wonder if I got a letter,” I say out loud in the terminal. My friends look confused as I pull back the zipper, exposing a thick, white card imprinted with the letters “TSA”.
“Yep,” I nod. “They always check the duffels. Easier to open, I guess.” Thanks airport security. Smiling to myself, I imagine the tired Homeland Security officer taken aback by the discovery of a bag full of dirty laundry. Not so glamorous.
II.
Sometimes he looks at me and I miss a beat. Other times I roll my eyes, and blush with embarrassment. I look away.
The space that grows between us when he is gone is filled with longing this time. I understand, intellectually, why it is that we are doing what we are doing. There’s not much sense in trying to keep two wild people contained yet when set on our opposite courses I feel the pull of him from four states away. The familiar sounds of the answering machine, the silence.
III.
40 degrees. Thighs feel the chill coming off of the water as I pound the pavement. Today I’ve remembered hat and gloves but my cheeks are still burning. Lungs heaving.
IIII.
Oatmeal stout.
Bad Top 40 radio.
Mini-Van mom-driving.
