oranges

I just came back from California earlier today. Pat and I spent the past week there at his parent's house for Christmas. I wish I hadn't have come back, that the super typhoon that was said to be on its way for the west coast could have obliterated all modes of airborne transportation. My mom agreed to take Pat and I to the movies once we had arrived at my house and my laundry had been taken down to the basement -- Pat's car will be in the shop until Monday. We saw Adaptation, a movie I had wanted to see as soon as I found out that it was directed and produced by the creators of Being John Malkovich. It was odd beyond comprehension, but after reflecting briefly, I decided that I liked it. My mom seemed irritated when we weren't at the doors to greet her as soon as she entered the parking ramp, even though we returned straight to where we had agreed to meet her after the movie had ended. The ride home was comfortably quiet, given that Pat and I had spent much of the day packing, driving to the airport, and flying back to Minnesota. We both stared at the passing scenery out of our respective windows and said little. My mom swung by Pat's house and we dropped him off. I'd like to say I helped him unload his luggage from the car, but all I did was tug on the handle of his duffle bag before he swatted my hand out of the way and lifted it out himself. After I had hugged Pat goodnight, my mom drove me back home. She lamented over the fact that she "had to do my laundry" and "I hadn't thanked her" and "she felt lonely on the carride home because Pat and I didn't talk to her" and my memory of the entire conversation is like cheesecloth. All I could think of was being in the back seat of Pat's mom's Camaro and gazing out the open window at the crisp blue sky and savoring the gentle breeze that combed through my hair as I rested my head on Pat's lap. And I thought of the German chocolate pie that made me melt in my chair when I ate dinner at Pat's grandma's house on Christmas Eve, popping nickels into arcades at Nickel City in San Jose and eating burritos and El Pollo Loco afterwards, and cooing over the sea otters gripping their little rubber rings and how shiny and sleek their fur was. I stared blankly at my mom as she complained of everything and made the air seem heavy, and I wondered how long I would have to retain eye contact before I could turn away and continue checking my mail and chatting with Resa. When I finally broke the cold glare we exchanged, my mom sighed and interrogated me about Tattered Shoe Designs, Resa's and my design site, which we lovingly nicknamed "Hot Damn." When I denied association to the website, she muttered "I see" in a manner that told me she had combed through the site already and knew I was lying. And if I had a map to explain to you how I felt right now, I would point to an orange.