“but aren’t there a million ways to fold laundry?”
and it wasn’t a terrible question. The dogs were all sleeping on the rug and the house smelled like firewood and burned toast. He had always loved dinner. Making it, eating it and cleaning it up. What production! Dancing between countertop to refrigerator. Chopping and mincing and testing and stirring.
She slept on the couch and would periodically blink her eyes open and shut. Forgiving her tiny naps, he’d wait for her to wake up long enough to make her laugh.
A whole lifetime could be spent this way, she thought.
Winter kept on, firewood burned itself away & the next morning orange juice sat on the bedside table next to bobby pins and coins.