A Call for Particulars
I’m often amazed by how little we know each other. Here I am with my blue pitcher of hot water, a Moroccan stew sitting in the slow-cooker, but across town friends are stuffing pinatas and flying back from Prague, debating the names of bones and buckling in their kids. Whadya do this weekend? we ask and shrug. Not too much. Just hung out.
I guess with Cody in London right now, I’m craving particulars. I’m used to getting his day while he hoses off the back patio and waters the plants, smokes a cigarette and lights the grill.
But the house is awfully quiet this morning. I want the mundane. Some one tell me what you ate for breakfast or about how you had to dig a splinter out with tweezers; tell me about the new dryer sheets and how good they smell or how you’re just amazed that they slice the pickles so you can just lay them right on the sandwich; just tell me something. Please?