It’s spring and in the eighties today. The afternoon is streaming through the blinds and into the living room.
Mr. Right is is resting in one of the ribbons of light. The black part of him is especially warm and he glances up at me and suggests that I ought to find my own spot in the shine.
I still need to grade twenty-three midterms, twelve poems, twenty narratives and two batches of interviews. Not that anyone’s counting…
