The heat makes the air heavy, blurring the horizon. I like that, these days. It used to be that I suffered summer, waiting for winter, but the recent years have turned me into a creature of the sun. Several nights ago, I rolled onto my back on the living room floor and saw the moon shining through the skylight, red as a bloody eye and staring. And I remembered, It was red that week. I rolled away before it could pin me to the floor. I am faster than the moon, ha.
I've taken up quilting, which involves a great deal of shaking cats out of batting that is not mentioned in craft books. Mike had been hovering, so I offered him a pair of pinned squares, "Want to try sewing?" "Sure," he said, and he took the fabric, sat down on my stool, fiddled curiously with the unfamiliar machine, and then proceeded to sew a perfect seam. By the end of the evening, he was whirring down the length of my quilt top in a neat line.
"This is what I hate about you," I told him. "You'll try anything, and you'll be good at it, and you have no damned sense about it. 'Scottish dancing? Hey, I'll be an instructor! Knitting? I made a lace kimono! Beer brewing? Here's an Irish Porter! Illicit drugs and sex? Sure, sounds fun! Deliver this box for you?'"
"Fly this plane?"
"'Put this package where?'"
"Crash into what?"
Stupid man.
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