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My plane touched down in Minneapolis late Sunday night. That afternoon I’d had one last lunch with Christian in Central Park and we’d spent the day lazily reading The New York Times and walking through the city, eating hot dogs from street vendors and snapping pictures on my disposable camera.
Seeing Minneapolis unfold below me from the airplane window felt comforting. Sure, the gnawing reality of college and my ordinary responsibilities started to creep back, but somehow they didn’t feel debilitating like they had before. Now it seemed manageable, like something to be endured and finished up.
I made my way through the Minneapolis airport, collected my bags from the luggage carousel, and walked out onto the street. My best friend, Dylan, waited curbside in his black Saturn with his hazard lights flashing. When he saw me he started honking and waving. He got out of the front seat and rushed around the side of the car to hug me.
“So, how was it?” Dylan asked. He popped the trunk and helped me toss my things into the back of his car.
I sighed and smiled. “Dylan, it was amazing.”
“I want you to tell me everything about it. Don’t leave a goddamn thing out,” he said.
We got into the car, buckled up, and sped onto the highway. As we merged onto I-494 heading home I told him everything I could think of as we zoomed back into the city.
At last I was home. But I knew it wouldn’t be for long....
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