It feels like an almost perfect Sunday.
I'm typing this on my couch in little shorts and my most comfortable t-shirt, in front of my fireplace. The house is clean, the floor smells slightly of citrus. I have tall candles in front of the fireplace lit with flames, and I have the patio door sliding door open to let in the smell of the cold autumn that is brewing outside. A few feet away from me, the dishwasher hums and gurgles, preparing the settings for next week.
To my left, on a yellow end table, there is cup of raspberry tea (hot) and a perfectly sized piece of chocolate cake. I have been eating the cake with a steak knife as all of my forks are in the dishwasher. The knife stands stabbed into the center of the slice as I type this.
I had finished my week's worth of homework and papers six hours ahead of the deadline and decided to celebrate. I didn't feel like company this evening and so, instead, went for a long walk and to the grocery store. It feels good. All of it. Especially the ache in my legs.
I keep cold cans of the flavored carbonated water she drinks in my refrigerator, only slightly different than the kind she seemed to favor. A different brand. A different fruit. It's not in a wait for her return, but rather, something to remember her by. A functional tribute of sorts. I am down to the last few tablespoons of the olive oil. I'll need something less hers to continue the march.
Be well; be loved,
k.
(image: Robert Maplethorpe in front of the Patti Smith cover he did. 1975. Via secrectcinema1 tumblr)
