Dramatic Fever

His car hit a pole, and he was inconsolable for days. He screwed up on his taxes and started checking for wiretaps and unmarked cars. He lost his wallet and blew containment, a total meltdown.

He only asks you how your weekend was so he can tell you about his weekend, which is consistently unbelievable.

His emotions are a huge dog pulling him down the street on a short leash – he stops and smells the roses and takes off again, fast, no control, no rhyme, no reason.

People in his life live fear of the day when something really bad actually does happen. Lucky for him, he lives in the suburbs. Papercuts are Roman tragedies, there.

For him every day is Super Bowl Sunday, he goes to bed and it’s the end of the world, and every morning he wakes up to the opening of curtains and the sound of a starter’s pistol.

outside the airport bookstore

Everything’s in English and he’s walking too slowly. His shoes are caked with dust from the Roman Forum, his shirt is new and French, and the Radiohead CD in his ears, he bought in Belgium

He’s starving and stiff and tired, but he dallies on his way to baggage claim. He wants to prolong this feeling, the transient sensation of having everything he needs on him, everyone he needs far away.

It ends. He hugs his mother and grabs his backpack. Funny. Backpacks was so important yesterday. Not anymore.

For now, home is fresh, new and familiar. Everything’s different, nothing’s changed.

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