I drive home after my last class of the week, deciding: to walk in warm sunshine or snuggle on the couch with Elizabeth Gilbert's novel The Signature of All Things.
I unpack my lunch bag, unzip my boots. Hunger rumbles. I slice a pear, chunk cheese, add a handful of pretzels to my favorite snack plate. I heat milk and brew coffee. Snack time, couch time, and novel time.
Gregg and I drive South, on our way to my favorite restaurant. The sun dips below the horizon and the grass dews. Fog rises where sky and ground meet. The landscape softens. The bittersweet hour.
In the restaurant, we eat the last Caprese salad of the Summer, dragging meaty slices of fruit through a puddle of balsamic vinegar and olive oil. Voices rise and fall around us as fellow diners come, and more frequently, leave. We fold slices of Neapolitan pizza and eat, tomato sauce dribbling on our plates. I tuck sprigs of unruly arugula between crust and cheese and sigh. We stir rocks of raw sugar into espresso and cappuccino, plan weekend getaways.
I watch for red lights ahead as the fog hovers, lowers, and lifts. Back home, we greet the moon and wonder if Orion dances through our skies yet. If not, then soon.
Inside, and I'm back to fleece, and words, tapping keys and sipping water, soul and body nourished.