Back from the grocer, the compartments (fridge, cupboard) stocked, tea made, a book before me, a light behind. The window that is also a door frames the first flakes, wet and heavy, eventually putting the book down to pull on my boots and gloves and coat to go outside and shake the trees and shrubs.
Back in my chair, refreshed, the book in my lap not yet open, it's characters where I left them: Rhoda leading Hurtle outside, to see her garden ("my garden"), like Harris led Ann to the rock garden in the book before it, a make-out session that stayed with her all her life, lighting up her dying days.
Oh, the world. Its worlds. Shoes, socks, pants and shirts.
I like your ring.
Do you? Thank you. It was my mother's. Where'd you get your belt?
My belt? Nordstrom's I think. Or Winners. They're right across from each other.
Yes they are. Hard to keep things apart.
Some things, yes. But I know what you mean.
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