Sunday, March 30, 2008

I am nauseous on the metro. I have a sore throat, wet hair and a stairway to heaven the length of my patterned tights. I have pressing arrangements.

He's in the other bedroom, walking in sleeping circles, and he has declared a state of play.

And if I think of his face, it is still only of the U of his straight nose, his blonde eyelashes.