aozora.umikaze
sashikomu
We draw the curtains closed on winter afternoons when it is time for tea. The sun falls too brightly through the window, and gentlemen and ladies do not squint. The soft light through the laced curtains is enough for us to read; the financial pages for me, you a novel. Always a novel, always modern, though every year I buy you one of the classics for your birthday.
After I’ve finished the paper, you mark your place with a finger and we talk. You report on the children and their families. Julian’s youngest has won an award of some sort. Margot and her husband are considering a new car, and do I think that wise considering the state of the economy. Joanna has done something unfortunate with her hair and you despair of her ever finishing her undergraduate studies. I make an appropriate noise for each item until you fall silent and turn back to your book.
As I leave, I draw the curtains open. You remain seated, reading. The tea has gone cold and bitter.
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