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teiichi
Driving back from the airport, jet-lagged to the ragged edge of anxiety, and the bridges of L.A. hovering over me like gargoyles. Everybody on this wet, grey, bladerunner freeway seems fretful, uncertain, as if the percussive rain—dark as soy sauce—has sapped the confidence right out of the heart of the city.
I should stop, I know, at the market. There won’t be anything in the apartment; just a freezer full of heart-healthy frozen meals. But the rain is too discouraging, and what my heart needs now can’t be measured in grams, like trans-fat.
When I get home I’ll order in a greasy pizza. I’ll turn on the flat-screen and watch the playoffs, pretending I care who wins. I’ll leave the suitcase by the bedroom door to be unpacked tomorrow. And I’ll go to sleep, in my own bed with my own pillow, and hope that when I wake the rain outside will have stopped.
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