Small exhalations of intimate air, scented sweetly with the remnants of exotic smoke and fruit, fall across my face just north of where his fingers stroke my cheek.
The sun slept, resting in a one o’clock hammock of sky, blue and vast like each morning’s first yawn. Below, on windswept cement, wedged between rows of cars and meager scrub trees, I made a lazy march toward the cafe, my bag laden with books. A February afternoon kept quiet and solitary, sparse to allow room to breathe and room to read. The seats beckoned me to lay across them and indulge.
& a second snippet.
The general brewing of life, the slow simmer and boil of day in and day out, has been punctuated by some creativity along with some other wonderful developments.