Leftovers

He shuffles into the apartment in a too-large overcoat and rummages through the pockets. The rain has drawn a soggy gradient across his shoulders and down his back. With one eye peering around the edge of her book, she looks for patterns in the spatter as he empties his pockets of keys, mail, and crumpled receipts.

As he turns toward the rest of the apartment, toward the kitchen with his dinner warming slowly on the stove, toward her, she tucks her face behind the book again. She licks a finger, turns the page, and says, without looking at him, "Your fries are still in my car."

I have a theory about leftovers. About scraps of all kinds, really.

People like to think that by wrapping these unconsumed morsels up and taking them home, they will feed themselves later. Or maybe feed their dogs. Or in the case of fabric, yarn, and other crafting scraps, the pieces will be woven into a future project. I believe that the intent is good and pure, but completely misplaced.

We don't really want to hold on to the tastes that will go cold and soggy and stale (and frayed, unraveled) in a number of hours. What we're really looking for is a way to revisit the experience of the meal. The ritual of moving food from styrofoam to plate, nuking it, then testing it gently with a fork (then pressing a finger to it, because you can't really tell with a fork if it's hot or not) before tentative consumption isn't about feeding yourself, it's about reheating the memories.

The fries from Friday night were never going to be as good as they were at the restaurant, but we took them anyways, believing that one of us would take them home and suffer bites of cold potato for the chance to close our eyes and remember the toast to toasting, sitting on phonebooks, and leaning close over a sideways table... all that preamble.

Year of the Flood

There's a welling-up point, a tipping point, where a book becomes something I can't put down. (Though I did put it down to write this post.)

In reality, I put down Year of the Flood, companion book to Oryx and Crake because I wanted to share that emotional moment with someone. In this little clutch of people I talk to frequently, however, I believe I am alone in my experience of this Atwood novel.

It's funny, I was so worried about reading more by her and having my reverence for Oryx and Crake damaged, but my worries were pointless. Year of the Flood is actually making the first book a richer experience, and I'd like to go back to O&C when I'm finished here, become more deeply steeped in the world.

But, oh, that emotional moment where I saw things in a new way! It would've been so nice to have someone to share that understanding with. Books are so hard to share in the way we share movies. Instead of the set timelined experience, we read at our own paces, and can't share the rhythms of text the same way we share the rhythms of the screen.

Hm, gr.

In any case, more reasons to go back and finish the essays I have about O&C, and expand them in the new light of the Flood.