It's 9:45 and I'm home from our summer kids' booktalk at the store.
There's a beer in the fridge, Raising Hope's on tv, and it's still light outside. The drive south down I-5 was beautiful: the blue windows of the skyscrapers reflect the strip of leftover sunlight, white headlights head north like satin Christmas ribbons, and the intimacy of talk radio whispers facts about gentrification into my ear. Dennis is asleep, I'm having some chips and salsa, drinking my beer, and am now trying to decide what to read when I go to bed. The wind is just coming up and dispersing today's mugginess. It's warm and the strip of sky in the far north between the clouds and the mountains is a greenish-aqua-yellowy-peach color.
I seldom have time alone, Tuesday nights, and, as mundane as watching the sky darken can be, watching a tv show, watching it by myself is like a little wrapped gift given for no reason, just because. Nothing special going on but not thinking about anyone else for a bit is pretty great.
That Christmas I spent in a Cyclone shelter.
3 months ago