novelty of going home smoldered faintly for Calle Oliver. She
listened to the concrete freeway underneath her boyfriend’s tires.
He pulled his palm from her knee to downshift as they reached the
exit ramp, and as soon as they turned onto route 56, she was suddenly
back in her reality of London, Ohio. It was almost dark as he veered
off of the puddled gravel driveway into the front
yard. He killed the engine and glanced at her. She loved the
stillness of arriving. And he loved her.
The night before I had the best breakfast ever, I was babysitting. The girl I was with was about ten, and her parents were out of town on business for the night. I was given the couch to sleep on in their lofty living room. The not-so-cozy McMansion sat on top of a big, steep hill, and the wall of windows in the living room had no curtains. I didn't sleep much.
In the morning, I had to be at the other end of the city to work. I knew what time the girl would be leaving for school, and I had plenty of time to stop by home afterwards for a shower and some breakfast. But her school bus was late enough that one of the moms at the bus stop called the school. It eventually showed up, but I ended up skipping my stop at home.
Driving to work in the rain, I was cold and clammy. An early morning with no hot shower and little sleep felt like a bad rerun of college. When I was close to work, however, I realized I would have about 15 minutes to spare. So, I stopped at the Kroger en route, and bought a lemon pie and a little cup of vending machine coffee. Then I sat in my car in the parking lot, and had just about the best breakfast I can remember.