The manuscript has been sent, the washing turns, clothes tumble in a watery spin. The travelling has paused, just for a little while and I stare at the sudden spring sky. I look at my feet on our old living-room rug (that we keep on promising we will replace). I examine the lines that divide our space, straight things moving from A to Z.
I think of promises and deadlines; words typed on top of Spanish mountains. My toenails are red and pillar box bright. I think of building and climbing and mystery, and how the lines of our existence generally curve.
I am working on stories and a project that makes me laugh. In between the workshops and the eating of garlic aioli (served with steamed vegetables and a bite of salt cod), I imagine an entirely new tale. I scrub floors, unexpectedly.
On Sunday night, I murmur, quietly to myself, you know, it will happen next...