Last night I slept in a t shirt that smelled like summer. There was a fire in a firepit and lemon ginger martinis and beet borscht with sour cream. There was lots of laughter, a pair of ridiculous glasses, and many familiar faces. Pretty good combination in my books. I woke up this morning in Rebecca's bed (sans Rabbi) with my arms outstretched, searching, searching, searching. But then it registered why and where I was and my arms recoiled softly back into my chest. I miss K, I miss Liza. Deeply ache miss. Miffed, I got out of bed and pet Sophie who was sitting like a queen beside the bed.
Today Sula and I are driving in very big hats to the Harvest Moon Festival (stay tuned for photos). We have cheese and wine and crackers and prom dresses and loud floral prints and obnoxious sunhats. We are a traveling band. I have never been before and am going with no expectations and ten rolls of film. Should be interesting.
I am still sans job.
I am still sans home.
I am still okay with this.
My shirt still smells like the bush and fire and summer. Indian summers are the new black. Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed Rebecca. You are the best in the west.