Mo and I got back from Chicago last night (an entry to come at some point when I am feeling a bit more traveloguey), skirting up the lake and apparently down the thermometer, watching the digital gauge descend through the teens and then do a dance around 10, 11, and 12 degrees. By the time I crawled into bed to chat with Esteban, I was tired, sore and freezing, and also somewhat afraid to go to sleep in case I didn’t wake up (sleep apnea, as diagnosed by Dr. ‘Man Chew’ Fu). I was so tired that I couldn’t stay awake and talk, despite the fact that Esteban was so very happy to see me and really wanted to hear about everything or just talk to me about whatever cat silliness had occurred. So then I felt like a jerk. Also, I had asked him to find someone else to take him to the airport at 4:45 AM the next morning, knowing that I’d probably get in late, so was pretty much a jerk again (although given my track record, it was probably a good idea).
Then, this morning, I woke up to an empty house. Esteban had cleaned the kitchen and living room over the weekend (and data wired my office’ damn, I should go away for the weekend more often) so it was a bit like walking through a house you’ve just vacated, staring at the spot where the refrigerator used to be, saturated with a weird sense of finality and loneliness and ghosts of laughter past. It’s the fortress of solitude.
I want to fly around the world and make it spin backwards.
