An unusually cool evening for early August. The utterly decadent feeling of slipping on a sweater … and, miracle of miracles, a pen is in the pocket! I really should have at least seven pens, but only two have been in commission for some time and I have no idea where the larger lot could be.
Today the apartment received another thorough scrubbing. Sometimes with housemates I feel like the household maid. But still, there is a deep luxury to suds and brushes, drying the mop sponge in full sun, scrubbing the porcelain sink, removing all smudges from the bathroom tiles … twice mopped floors underfoot, the faint lingering scent of vinegar. I also cleaned the refrigerator, the final act to make a place feel truly, certifiably clean. I cleaned until there were no paper towels or rags left, then sorted the bookshelf.
Last night I dreamt my right hand became green, covered with scales, and growing pointed nails. I recognized it as my real, authentic hand, and loved it.