It’s 8:30 in the morning and Lex and I had just dropped her mom off at the airport. I’ve always found it to be really peaceful watching the planes take off and land.

Endless journeys, endless stories, endless roads. I’ve had such tunnel vision lately, and being at O’Hare, even for only a minute or two, opened my world right back up.

Still, as the city grew closer and the airfield grew smaller, I felt this sense of suffocation, as though reality, while currently pleasant, was still far too overwhelming. 

“I need a beer.” I say to Lex.

“I do too.” She replies.

As we come to this conclusion, the clock ticks to 8:45 and Amy Winehouse’s song, “Rehab” comes on the radio. 

We exchange glances, followed by laughter in a slight Beavis and Butthead fashion. We resolve to quest-out for some alcohol, a pursuit which would prove fruitless.

Who’s desperate for a drink this early on a Sunday? A couple of girls that pushed themselves a little too hard in all aspects. 

I fought so hard trying to not be that girl. Still, she’s comfortable. She’s reckless and rigid. Can I be her just for a day, or even for a couple of hours on a Sunday morning, getting brown out drunk, listening to soul, and and talk about nothing at all? If I do it quietly? Can I let my short hair down for a moment? Can I be messy and cry my eyes out for no real reason other than the fact that I haven’t done it in a while? 

When we get back back to our place, Lex and I go to our spots in the kitchen. I make myself a bagel and pour a cup of coffee. Lex curls up with a blanket and turns on Howard Stern. We are back to the lab in our own ways.

Old habits don’t always die hard. A car crash doesn’t always kill them. Sometimes you’re reading the paper and stumble across their obituary. They left no scars or family, reached a ripe old age. Retired. Died quietly in their sleep. You imagine that it must be a relief their lives are over, but are no longer connected to them to feel anything at all.


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