Friday. Home. Alone. Full of Ropa Vieja and Guacamole Cubano from Gustazo Cafe (Belmont).
I crouch over the computer on the kitchen table. Knees tucked under me awkwardly on the stools that seat the bar-height surface. Two mugs sit in front of me. The ages old public radio mug from the station in Michigan that played Cuban music on Friday nights. The white mug with the pig drawing that made us laugh to tears and the Alice in Wonderland quote. They hold room temperature water and hot water respectively. I thought of making tea, but I didn’t want anything so crass. Just water tonight.
It is no longer raining and I find that the absolute silence is what I have been craving more than any sweet or touch or nourishment. My life and its beautiful adventures have felt particularly LOUD this week. And now it’s so quiet I can hear the faint humming of some small constant machine in a neighbor’s apartment. I could drink this void and become giddy on it.
I am debating whether to take a bath or just go to bed. Even though it is not 8:30. Even though I could list a dozen things I would like to do as fast as you could snap your fingers. Even though…
I am happy. The way children are happy: to inconceivable heights for infinitesimal reasons.
Even though I don’t know why. And I still don’t know.