You know those prisoner exchange scenes in the movies? The ones where two opposing factions are parked on either end of a bridge, guns drawn, high beams on, and it's midnight. At the appointed time a battered, shaken, and possibly bound individual emerges from each set of headlights and begins making his way to the opposite side. The two pass somewhere in the middle distance and finally make it into the waiting arms of their compatriots from whom they had been taken. Doesn't ring a bell? Go watch the the foreign exchange program episode of The Simpsons from Season 1 and you'll have an idea.
Anyway, I think the closest everyday people ever come to a situation like that is the post-breakup exchange of possessions. That fuzzy time when a sort of calm has settled in and everyone is trying to make a return to his or her antebellum way of life. I had my Exchange Moment on Monday night and it was as awkward as to be expected. She gave me back the book and DVD that had been left at her condo. I gave her the money that I owed her from a plane ticket she had bought for a trip that we were supposed to take before I rather abruptly ended things. It's pretty fucked up...
But the one outstanding possession that lingers in Limbo is my black t-shirt (I know, what a cliche), my black Jimmy Page "Zoso" t-shirt to be exact. The shirt I have owned for over 15 years. My first "band shirt." Do I really want it back? Kinda. Do I really need it back? I don't know. It barely, I mean barely, fits me and she looks 1000 times better in it than I ever did. Perhaps it is in better hands.