tuckova

I wake in the darkness, even the sleep mask doesn't help, but I push it down under the pillows along with the dreams, and I stretch like a cat and make the bed before I can crawl back into it. Work for a few hours in the dark, the room lit only by the glow of the computer. Choke down an egg on toast for breakfast, the toast with not enough butter, sad hobbit toast, and coffee without milk or sugar because why. It's okay black. Answer emails, work more, "Another perfect Job, Anne!" writes David, and I think: job. Although Job suffered and I am suffering perfectly so there is that. In the afternoon I pull a yoga mat out onto the balcony and take a nap in a sunbeam which is nice. I forgot lunch. Late afternoon my youngest friend comes over and we wash all the legos in the bathtub together, the clack of plastic brick against ceramic is nice, and then we read about dinosaurs and I smell her hair and feel about as happy as possible. When it's time to cry I close all the windows and muffle myself with a scarf; when it's time to laugh I call someone and we go out for coffee and talk about boys, or white wine and talk about women. At night Squire comes home and we sit on the balcony and rest our feet on the railing and I have a cigarette and he has a root beer and we talk about our days and look at the stars. It's pretty good, and if I thought about it being better well that was just a minute and minutes pass. There went one just now.