A lovely duet as the sun sets and candles flicker on the table.
As the waves withdraw, they clutch at the stones, wishing their foam were webbing that could hold them to the shore.
Moments that pass in a vibration of joy.
He pretends it's an editing request, but what he really wants is a new article, from scratch.
It's a tree like the head of Medusa, snake-like branches twisting and striking.
He likes to act as if he's a judge, and I'm the prisoner at the bar. He makes a statement of some kind, exaggerated or untrue, then sits back with his arms folded over his chest and watches me exert myself to correct his misapprehensions. I catch on pretty quickly to what he's doing and end the conversation, which he takes as further proof that he's right. Such are his standards of proof.
He's hunched over his book, but looks up from time to time to see if anyone is coming over to interrupt his reading.