Walking away

We were walking down the street The fall wind blew leaves lightly across our path. When my siblings and I were younger we made large piles of leaves and dove into them. The natural crash pads were imaginative walls to slam into during our epic battles with each other. The mounds of slow decay were forts, hiding spots, impromptu playgrounds. The leaves on the street were piled by the curb. No child would play with them.

"What have you been thinking about lately?" she asked me.

Our conversations start this way. First a very vague question then more pointed. She will inquire into the most troubling aspects of my personal life, ex girlfriends, friends with whom I'm on the outs, or other sources of drama. Its often like undergoing an interrogation, a brutal questioning session mixed with an underlying theraputeic affect.

"I've been thinking about leaving," is my reply. "I've been thinking about how long I've lived here, how my desire to get away for a while is increasing. My worry is that by staying here for a long time that life will stagnate. Slowly my daily activities will become more and more mediocre."

Its not often that there is a pause in our conversations. Now there is one. She probably has run out of gatling gun queries. She takes off her sweater.

"Its hot. No hooker comments."

After a half a block my eyes catch sight of her tiger print shirt. My lungs fill with air. The exhale comes slow to avoid the laughter.

Why do I want to leave so bad? Is it my relationship? Or the lack thereof? Is it the desire to break from the routine? Is it the rain and cold that will come soon? Maybe I'm tired of being myself.

I want to go.