Wise men say, “Don’t air your dirty laundry,” so I’m not going to do that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t tell you about the clean, but still very wet laundry that was spinning in the dryer in the garage when Sophia and I had our last fight in the house.
“I’ll take the Shuttle to the airport,” I said, grabbing the soggy clothes in mid-rotation and throwing them into my suitcase.
I walked to the laundromat by the post office, wheeling my luggage in like I was entering the marble lobby of the Four Seasons. A homeless man was washing himself in the sink. A grumpy African-American woman was reading Jet magazine; Fantasia was on the cover. I remembered when Sophia and I watched Fantasia win American Idol. How long ago was that? 2004?! Nine years ago!
I opened the suitcase on the cleanest linoleum counter, and tossed the damp clothes into the commercial drier. My brightly colored shorts and t-shirts — direct from summertime in New Zealand — created a colorful kaleidoscope as they spun, but they would do little to keep me warm during the cold gray wintery life of New York City.
In the front pocket of the suitcase was a New Zealand Paua shell that Juli gave me to take home. It was wrapped in a red towel. I carefully peeled the flaps of the flannel towel open, like a onion, or like a woman, to make sure that it was still in one piece.
Sophia called. We talked. We calmed down. She drove me to LAX. At the American Airlines terminal, I gave her my house key. In New Zealand, Juli gave me her house key, and I took it — a promise to return. And here I was, giving my other house key back to Sophia.
It was not the way I imagined leaving the house for the last time, wheeling out my wet clothes in a suitcase.
I can tell you are liking this “one a day posts thing “… I am too.
It’s actually quite scary to me. Which is probably good.
Love this.
Steph
You had me at laundry, although technically speaking, 9 years ago would be 2004.
In my defense, I was an English major.
Love this, and I hate to be the asshole, but I don’t think American Idol was around in 1994.
Thank goodness Karen hit publish before me.
Changed it. Thanks. What is time, I ask? Just a number.
I love this! And don’t even try to tell me this isn’t a blog post. It totally is. And that’s why blogging rules. Because you can be awesome and experiment with new things when you feel like it. I can’t wait to see what’s next. KEEP GOING.
What IS time I ask you? Time is an a-hole.
Love the parallel of the two keys.
A friend was moving her clothes out of her house and her soon to be ex-husband informed her the hangers they were on were HIS.
And their’s was a “friendly” divorce. Sigh.