Fiction

I’ve been having a fantasy lately of spending an entire afternoon, possibly stretching into the evening, lying on the sofa, reading a book.

As fantasies go, this one is so far on the “do-able” range of the spectrum that it strikes me as a little pathetic, and yet deeply human, that I imagined it — added all that mental embroidery: the fragrant drink I will have at my side, the plate of cookies, the degree to which any thoughts but the ones contained in the book will be absent from my mind — when I could just grab a damn paperback already and flop down on the couch.

So yesterday, that’s what I did. I got a pillow and read until it was time to take a nap.

When I woke up evening was coming, and the palm fronds were casting spiky shadows onto the trunks of their trees. The shadows swayed in the wind, just like the real thing, and I was so happy I was there, really there, to notice it.

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One Response to “Fiction”

  1. hey, that tickles Says:

    i share your fantasy. reading is such a simple escape. and though i love a good novel, i’ve been using the new yorker as a substitute. it works for grabbing a fantastic moment here and there. i always seem calmer afterward, too.

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