Thursday, December 27, 2012
Evenings are a cocktail around 6. Mine lasts till well after 7. This disturbs the Frenchman.*
Evening is pots and pans being hauled from cupboards, ingredients chosen, and chopped. It is warm light and flowers on the table, music from the bedroom where Vince works on something at his computer. It is the cat asleep on the bed, the lights on the terrace - small bright spots in the cold dark, the drip of the tap into a pan that needs washing in the kitchen sink. It is the soft gasp of the gas oven, the hum of the fridge, a door slamming in a downstairs apartment. The drawing in and the drawing near, the coming home, the gathering close, the summoning and preserving of the pulse in the blood that makes us go, go, go.
* (read comments)