1. I like to take from the fridge a cold and heavy bowl of chicken stock, and take off the mats of yellow fat that have floated to the edge.
2. I swear the spiked cucumber on the vine by the door gets larger every time I see it. Yesterday, it was thumb-sized, bloomy cute and almost strokable. Today (polished green and angrily spiked, the length of my middle finger) it looks like a stroppy teenager and I'm afraid it might explode if I touch it.
3. In the night, he confides that he is going to make loving me his life's work, and the shadows behind my eyelids are driven away (as if someone turned on a light when I was stumbling in a dark room) by a technicolor vision of walking on grass under brightest sunlight in clear air where cold new water springs from the places inside mountains.
