It's cold outside--down into the teens this morning--and these days Tom is mostly working outside, framing a new structure as a stiff winter wind blows off the bay. I hate that he has to spend his days in such miserable conditions, though he is stoic.
Meanwhile, I dither at my desk.
Yesterday, before striding off to make pizzas, Paul helped me un-Christmas the house--boxing up decorations, lugging the tree outside, sweeping up the needle mess. I miss the lights, but as always the house feels so roomy and spare without the tree. I like the sensation of an airy new start.
Paul has to work on New Year's Day, so we're planning our special meal for the night before . . . Chinese takeout: a no-cooking-dinner treat for me. And probably we'll play some games, because we are a game-playing trio. And undoubtedly I'll go to bed hours before midnight.
Reading-wise, I'm still working my way through Proust. But I haven't written much, other than these daily letters to you. I'm feeling a numbness creep over me. The future is shadow, the present a distraction: scrub the counters, fold the towels, correct the commas, boil the water.