June 22, 2004
Soap and Ravioli
I sat in the bath eating chicken ravioli by candlelight.
Mike welcomed me home when I walked in the door from work, the last few inky pools of sunset following behind me through the door. The house was dark.
"But I'm not home."
He knows, and I know, but sometimes it feels as though I am, I think, for him and for me. Me, more, likely.
So he plys me with a microwave dinner and leads me to the bath, where I voted to listen to Massive Attack. I was so pleasantly overcome... he told me later as I lay wrapped in the comforter, tortilla-like, that he had to prepare a bath for his "working girl" lest I come home and pass out and complain about having a headache, or being tired...
A ploy to get me naked, but a charming ploy all the same.
I have nearly the whole of William Faulkner's Go Down, Moses to read today, but I am hoping yesterday's sweetness will tide me over. Friday is my last day of summer classes, and, as much as I adore my professor, I am counting the hours. I'm imagining long, empty days, with a shelf of non-course related books to choose from, and a nap every one-hundred pages or so... the essence of summer, for me.
There's a dead cicada trapped in the window screen. I feel a little like him, presently.
astera at 12:18 p.m.