#185

I was laying on Lydia’s couch being a sad sack with Huxley open, but I wasn’t reading, it was more like springtime sadness dozing and wondering if I could convince her to make me some food when she arrived.

The window was open and the dog and I heard her pull up the drive. It was her house, but I often let myself in with the key she gave me one year as a Christmas gift, even though both of us really dislike Christmas.

Her: For emergencies.
Me: Yeah right.

The dog is old so he doesn’t move as he used to but still jumps up to greet her at the door. I can tell she’s had a good day so my food fantasies might not be fraught.

Her: Are you two behaving?
Me: Melancholic. Would love some food. Whatever you can whip up.

Her eyes made that shape that says at the same time “I love this” and also “I wish you would die”.

The radio was on - some news about something that felt far away. She and I both loathe the news about as much as we loathe Christmas, so I turn it to the classical station while she pulls a few things out of the fridge.

Bartók comes through the speaker.

Her: Avant-Garde.

I smile. The dog lays back on the rug in the middle of the floor; outside, kids ride bicycles down the sidewalk under the newly formed green leaves of the poplars, maples, oaks, walnuts, and ash. Down by the creek, the willow will be leaning over the water which is flowing quickly, and asking us to jump in.

Later, as Lydia puts a few things on the table and says order up, my eyes were heavy with dreaming and thoughts about what we might get up to this weekend.