The house is growing quiet, the murmuring kitchen radio and the uneven noise of the TV say "night." My husband laughs. Midnight in Paris, I think, a Woody Allen movie.
My daughter is spread out under a comforter on the sofa, annoyed that she missed the closing ceremonies of the Olympics. I'm shielded by my laptop and the song in my head: "Let's do it, let's fall in love..."
Pippi is tightly curled by my left hip--my left elbow gently nudges his neck ruff and I can hear and feel his breathing. Pippi is the smallest of my cats, and I'm hopelessly fond of him. He was sleeping so soundly, snoring punctuated by little stilted purrs, that I poked him until he awoke. It's my opinion that every sleeping creature is dead and the only thing that will convince me otherwise is to wake them.
Pippi is sleeping again and I leave him be for now, except for my elbow. Today I took a lot of pictures of Leo. He was romancing a small round end table, its tattered cloth and a fat glass vase packed with hydrangea. I thought that he might knock the vase off the table but that thought was behind the one that kept the camera in my hands.
My phone buzzes, disturbing the soft aspect of the quiet. I answer, stopping my keystrokes and breaking my mood mid-sentence. I'm resuming in a new paragraph.
I'm in a different room, with another radio. Schubert. Art song. The voice of the air conditioner--at least that's what it sounds like to me. The radio sits under the air conditioner and fights for sound space. A duet between Bose and Haier. The voices in my head are growing cool.