It has just turned Sunday morning. Craig is just about sleeping but I? I am sitting in our giant brown chair (far too giant for our miniature wondapartment) sipping water and listening to the city outside.
It is full of heels on pavement, this Sunday morning, the drunken bawl of men & keen of women. The low thrum of the traffic. The far off bass of a covers band. Laughter and broken glass. In a few hours the streets will smell foetid & worn.
The city is making the most of tonight.
So am I.
Sitting cool & quiet. Sipping water, bare legged, I am content.
(I could be out there. Often I am. But not tonight.)