the end of an error.
The music last night was really nice. I'm listening to The Mathematicians on the laptop right now.
Last night while Lee's band was playing, I had to go to the bathroom. As I walked out of the busy dining hall and down the stairs, everything turned into an unnatural silence. And I thought, if this were a movie, something bad would happen to me now, while my husband is directly upstairs listening to Lee's band with about 60 computer geeks eating bad hotdogs and undercooked burgers. I'm going to be mugged or murdered or something during Lee's horrible stage banter.
Nothing happened.
On the way back, I found a bunch of Japanese girls hanging out and looking into the windows of the doors in the lobby at the band. They've been here all summer. They've lived down the hall from us for over a month. I don't know any of their names. I motioned for them to go in, which made them smile and giggle. They didn't come in until later though. I guess they needed to work up the courage.
They're going back to Japan today. One of them has hung out around us a lot in the past three weeks. I don't know her name. When John and I were leaving the party last night to go back to the lab, she and her friend were standing off to the side, near the door. Crying. I gave her a hug, which seemed to do nothing but make her cry harder.
We have to pack this evening because we're moving again. Going back home. Home is such a stupid word. How does it get away with being so ambiguous? I think we're going to dinner with some of the other counselors tonight. They're going home tomorrow.
When my alarm clock went off this morning, I could hear an engine idling outside, toward the main door. I imagined it as being a big charter bus like the one in which I first saw Dirty Dancing in high school on a trip to the Cincinnati Zoo with plush pink seats, waiting as tiny Japanese women pulled cumbersome luggage behind them, the cold breeze blowing their dark hair in front of their eyes.
It was probably just a garbage truck.
Last night while Lee's band was playing, I had to go to the bathroom. As I walked out of the busy dining hall and down the stairs, everything turned into an unnatural silence. And I thought, if this were a movie, something bad would happen to me now, while my husband is directly upstairs listening to Lee's band with about 60 computer geeks eating bad hotdogs and undercooked burgers. I'm going to be mugged or murdered or something during Lee's horrible stage banter.
Nothing happened.
On the way back, I found a bunch of Japanese girls hanging out and looking into the windows of the doors in the lobby at the band. They've been here all summer. They've lived down the hall from us for over a month. I don't know any of their names. I motioned for them to go in, which made them smile and giggle. They didn't come in until later though. I guess they needed to work up the courage.
They're going back to Japan today. One of them has hung out around us a lot in the past three weeks. I don't know her name. When John and I were leaving the party last night to go back to the lab, she and her friend were standing off to the side, near the door. Crying. I gave her a hug, which seemed to do nothing but make her cry harder.
We have to pack this evening because we're moving again. Going back home. Home is such a stupid word. How does it get away with being so ambiguous? I think we're going to dinner with some of the other counselors tonight. They're going home tomorrow.
When my alarm clock went off this morning, I could hear an engine idling outside, toward the main door. I imagined it as being a big charter bus like the one in which I first saw Dirty Dancing in high school on a trip to the Cincinnati Zoo with plush pink seats, waiting as tiny Japanese women pulled cumbersome luggage behind them, the cold breeze blowing their dark hair in front of their eyes.
It was probably just a garbage truck.
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