For spiceboy: A Million Mondays
I bought some roses from the shop on the corner because that's what one does when the sun is shining like this. The roses are brilliant pink and whitest white; like our wedding invitations.
All of the fruit stands are selling blueberries and strawberries now. When you come home, perhaps we will make a pie--the blueberry one from my favorite cookbook.
The dog is learning to sit and stay. She looks up at me from the corner of 60th and First, her tail thumping the sidewalk, and the other people in their rumpled work clothes look down at her and smile while waiting for the light to change.
Tonight: A glass of petit bourgeois. To eat: Black cod. I picked out the bones like you said--not to worry.
As I waited for the fish to cook, I leaned down and looked out the window and for a second, the air smelled like Bangkok.
If you were here, I would have called you over, had you lean close to the window and sniff. You would humor me and say that it, indeed, smelled like Bangkok, and I'd bury my face in your neck, wrap my arms around your waist and be thrilled at the prospect of the lazy doings of a milllion Mondays just like this one.
If you were here, I would hop into bed and you would lean over and kiss my forehead, my lips. "Tuck me in," I might say, and you would tuck the blankets in around my legs, my waist, and you would whisper culla culla culla, the way my dad used to whisper to me, the way my grandmother used to whisper to him, the way we'll whisper to our own kids someday.
If you were here, I would drift off to sleep with the lights on, as always, and I would probably stir as you climbed into bed very late, and I might even speak to you, but I wouldn't remember a bit of it upon waking tomorrow morning.
If you were here, you would have to remind me that the conversation happened at all.
I miss you. Come home soon.