watching the clothes go round

Half a glass of wine on the day of adopted patron saints, strangely antisocial and relieved to come home away from people and junk food. Partying is for other people and there's tea to drink and Bulgakov to read. A Friday night previous of living room music, the rawness of voice and guitar that was infinitely more intimate, walking through my old almost-hood, talking about music and theology over diner food. Somehow the jitters resolve themselves once all is made clear and there's nothing to panic about.

So I'm at the laundromat across the street with the other folk who rent, Mellencamp and other sap on the radio, trying to figure out how to use these last few hours of weekend sun before the chill comes again. It smells chemical fresh and the thoughts don't come out so easily. Maybe they will next time around.