couch surfing

I've spent the last few weeks hopping couches, with nothing left to my name than a few bags--clothes and a computer and a handful of books. Not even the ones I couldn't bear to part with, just a few that might help kill the time.

I always expected it to be romantic when I finally had no ties left, when I could go anywhere I had the money for--so long as there was coffee and cigarettes somewhere. So far I've just been adrift in the city, working odd jobs that I find out about through friends, never staying in the same place more than a few days. They let me shower, of course, but I think it's starting to show. I never expected that, either.

They never know when I'm going to leave, of course. I don't want to bother them with awkward farewells. In the morning I'm gone. Usually I take off at three or four in the morning and find a place to kill the hours. Tonight I woke up to my alarm at about 3:30 and stepped out onto the porch for a cigarette. I found my host already there smoking one of her own.

"Hey," I said.

"Hello," she said, eyeing my bags. "Are you leaving?"

"Yeah." I sat down next to her and she offered me a light. "Thanks for giving me a place," I said.

"Hey, it's nothing. Any time." She looked at me and smiled. In the night it looked strange. "I mean that. It's always good to see you."

We smoked in silence. After a while I stood up, and she followed. We shook hands, and I said, "Thanks again, for everything."

"You too." She nodded. "I mean that, too."

"What do you mean?"

She smiled. "You take care of yourself, kid." She stepped inside and I never explored it further. We all make mistakes.