08.13.2002 - 11:25 a.m.

It is late. I am standing at the end of a driveway outside a dark house, the door of which I have dutifully locked behind me.

I am thinking about poems. Standing next to my car, thinking about one in particular that was read to me not three hours before, about circles and containing lines which I won�t be able to quote (not having seen the words) but which went something like this:

but none of this is important now
because my keys are not in my pocket.

I press my face up to the car window, shading against the street light with one hand, but I can�t really tell if they�re in there. I pat my thighs down one last time. Still no lumps.

I am pretty sure they are not in the house, so I decide to walk home. I have spare keys in my nightstand table, assuming the packing/unpacking process has performed as designed. Walking, I think briefly of serial killers hiding in trees, but not in a particularly worrying way. It is a beautiful night.

I remember that while I have spare keys at home, home is probably also locked. I�ll just have to wake up the new roommate. It�ll be a good test to see if she is really up to the challenge of life with someone like me.

And it works out okay. I�m only about a fifty yards down the street when I realize my back pocket is jingling. My keys don�t belong in my back pockets�I can�t explain how they got there, but I�m so proud of myself for noticing before banging on my own front door.

Of course then, I pull into my apartment complex, breeze past where I should have turned, and try to park where I lived a week ago.

I was wondering how long it would take me to do that.

Sometimes just getting yourself home becomes an adventure.

-stonebridge

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