"Is you is, or is you ain't my baby"

Must really be fall now. I hear rain hitting my windows at full speed; the kitchen smells like licorice tea, the living room smells of candles. I spent the evening curled up on the futon with a book, while Mitch scribbled and scratched out and pondered aloud his homework.

I miss our woodstove, but a fleecy bathrobe will do.

We listened to old, crackly jazz recordings courtesy of the Radio Museum's broadcast station, but we kept the volume low enough that we could still hear the rain outside, the slap of wet leaves against wet glass.

Like a cat curled in front of a fire, I am content.