My mornings are usually plain and quiet. I sit in the kitchen for hours, reading the New Yorker and sipping black coffee which has gone too cold. It’s these simple pleasures that leave room for unpredictable incidents that my life is now full of. I see how slowly the light grows outside. How darkness is drained into narrow shades of trees and fences… how my sleepy neighbors walk their indifferent dogs, bored with laziness and routine they’re going to miss when dogs are gone to heaven. My windows are tall and wide and my vision is clear and free.
But the living world pours itself into the kitchen and settles by my feet, purring and stretching like an old cat. He looks at me and expects me to adore him and care for him, to nourish his ambitions and satisfy his hunger with my time and potential.
But the truth is, I don’t really take interest in ornamented mechanics of this world anymore. I stay in, refuse to travel and create a micro universe in my small room in Brooklyn. And perhaps that’s why he seems to crave my attention more and more lately. Perhaps the world is just like an ostentatious lover: he starts wanting you more as you grow colder.
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