back from the west coast

I track the American Airlines plane that is bringing Alexander back to New York.  It lands in Newark at 12:17 this morning.

Somewhere around two, Alexander arrives home.  He walks into my bedroom, where I am awake.  His long fuzzy hair is a bit out-of-control, but he looks handsome and happy.  We stay up talking into the wee hours of the morning.  He has me doubled over in laughter describing his exploits this summer, and his colorful roommates. 

I know he is looking forward to a good night’s sleep on his still new mattress. For the past few weeks, he’s been sleeping on the floor on an Aerobed that no longer holds air.  Poor baby.

This morning we get up late. His first words around 1 are, “What are you making me for breakfast?”  I give him options; he chooses the bagel (albeit a 100-calorie one) with lox and cream cheese.  I sit down in our corner comfy chair to read and he says, “You can’t sit there; I’m sitting there.” He says this as he’s sitting on the sofa eating lunch and watching TV.

After a small bout of whining how he needs that specific seat to finish a script assessment for work, I give in.

I go in the bathroom and the top of the sink is lined with Alexander’s razor and shaving cream.  Bits of shaving cream dot the rim of the sink.  His bags are all over the living room.  His bed, by four pm, is still unmade.  A half-drunk bottle of Poland Spring sits on a side table from last night.

I come back with my book, The Art of Racing in the Rain, a slight little tale told from the perspective of a dog. I stretch out on the sofa.  A few minutes later Alexander says, “Okay. You can use this chair now if you want.  My computer has run out of batteries and there’s no outlet near this chair.” He takes his computer and moves to the corner of the sofa, both near the outlet, and the tip of my toes.

“Can you move? This is really annoying.”

It doesn't take long for things to return to normal.