It’s a sunny Saturday evening and I’m out of step. I try out elements of my regular habits, but they don’t fit comfortably.
I lay down to sleep in my own bed. My blankets seem unfamiliar.
There’s an almost empty carton of milk in the refrigerator. It’s not yet expired, but it tastes stale.
The dishes need washing.
CDs cases are not put away. My pile of unread books is looming. When did I buy these? Who says they’re mine?
Robert calls and asks for help. He’s a stranger, how did I get involved in this?
I walk down to the waterfront to take some pictures. I hobble back behind The Aquarium, my back stiff from kayaking.
I over-caffeinate at Bauhaus and read Murakami. I’m finally starting to get a grasp on the book, sitting there among a dozen people whom I’ve seen a million times but have never spoken to. I was away and now I’m here and so are you.
The vacation is fading from my mind, but I’m still far away from Seattle.