The world's a mop bucket.
A cold and squelchy afternoon. Rain plops onto my red umbrella.
On the train some people carry large open bags full of smaller rustling bags, magazines, paperback novels, crumbled cookies and leaky sandwiches; one woman pulls out a Yuletide stocking and starts stuffing it with chocolates. Other people are more spare and self-contained: all they need is a laptop and headphones, and they're settled inside a world within a moving world.
Even when there are no new messages or calls coming in, email and phone can be so distracting.
Washing jeans by hand requires some energy and open-mindedness (agitating the soapy water is the fun part, rinsing is slightly less fun). Smelling of lavender they dry nicely even indoors, in that little nook by the window fan.
It's a terrible thing when someone holds out a hope to you and then snatches it back.
As we walk at dusk he tells me that I brighten his day.