homecoming

It had been four months. He seemed thinner. He was eating Chinese food from a Styrofoam container at the baggage claim. I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t, couldn’t. He probably knew that, the former. Maybe that’s why he’d busied himself with the stand-up meal. There seemed a calm about him. It felt nice. He didn’t talk much, didn’t seem to want to. I started asking questions, then stopped after a few. It was hard. I wanted to know all about Los Angeles, all about his friends, all about what he’d been doing. He didn’t ask many question to me about me. In fact, we didn’t talk much, at all. When we got to my place, he asked if I lived in the front or the back. I told him and we entered the apartment. He said it seemed all right, used my laptop for a few minutes, then sprawled out on the couch and watched TV. He seemed less angry. My apartment felt warmer. I asked him to turn off the Christmas tree when he went to bed. He said he would. Nicely. Very nicely.