A Warm Place

A lazy afternoon spent curled up into a ball in a toasty patch of sunlight, bent over a book on your lap, Einaudi in the background, accompanied (admittedly, without terribly much harmony) by random bird calls, and the faintest hint of a breeze. A sweatshirt that smells of fresh detergent and winter, its age betrayed by the dogged rim of lint all over, lint that takes to that patch of sunlight so easily. Backlit sweatshirt, deep blue, gold-rimmed. The shadow of your hair, and, inexplicably, of your glasses too, muting the white pages into a comfortable grey. Patchy grey, with bits of white-gold that persist through your inconsistent, straggly hair. Toes seek their share of warmth and wriggle sulkily. Tighter curl, nose-rub, sigh. Not quite the depth of winter, not quite invincible, still adrift, and yet, still, at peace. Reznor knew what he was talking about.