It is Saturday morning. I've been up for hours. The last dregs of my coffee just warmed up with a splash of boiling water. The oven is hissing softly. I've just put in the croissants I left proof overnight. The house is quiet -- I would be playing music, but my roommate got home in the wee hours, and I don't want to disturb him. The dog has been fed. I've done a few little things around the house -- mostly cleaning. I've meant to take care of for a few weeks.
All these little activities are interspersed between something I love to do - read.
Just moments ago, before I began this piece of writing, I was standing in the kitchen. Book flayed open in one hand, my eyes glued to the page. Occasionally the other hand reaching for the coffee mug. Perhaps I change my stance to read more intently, leaning on the kitchen counter. Only to straighten up once the action has calmed.
This is a thing I love to do - read standing up. In the kitchen. As some delicious pastry is baked. As my coffee cools and I am about to start the day.
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