Saturday, March 17, 2012
He wakes like toast. Straight up without pause. I am far more meandering, more of a slow-cooked egg.
I imagine his daydreams are closer to home than mine, related in some way to his task at hand. But I have no evidence. He doesn't tell me about them.
Mine are odd floating daydreams, frequently simple objects drifting above and past me, just skimming my peripheral vision. Often food. Yesterday I saw the Good Humor strawberry shortcake ice cream bar of my childhood pass by, and later a plate of poached salmon, green beans, and new potatoes with dill.
I told him what I saw. I don't believe it changed his opinion of me.