monday night at the coffee shop

I'm slow reading a textbook and resisting doing everything that is not reading the book. The week reels back and forth, somehow bearing everything incorporated and not seeming as overwhelming as it should.

I am 54 days. That's nothing.

Around me it's broad spectrum, ironic beards and toques and middle aged joggers in winter spandex meet college students in converse and backpack and older normal people that could be from any small town. Sweatshirts. Fleece. Sometimes workboots, often hikers. Men in heavy black non ironic glasses read newspapers, white haired women have intimate conversations. People laugh around tables. RBH identifies the Spanish painter who did the work on the walls, deft touch.

We talk about going away for a weekend, he goes to do his work and I do mine. There are things you're supposed to say and things you're not. That's bullsh*t, when it's actually good you say what should be said and in the end it's better. Like "don't go" or "I need this." After riding out a complicated January and surviving a run-down February we're back at the sweet spot, the goodnight phone calls and shared jokes. Aside from a regular compulsion to curl up with him and ignore deadlines, assignments, projects and my entire life, it's good.

Tomorrow live on radio, probably maybe. Wild.