So maybe my horoscope was off by a day or two

And I don't know how he does it, but he somehow manages, even after a day of sawing, sanding, and varnishing, to taste just like a rootbeer float. Sweet and creamy, with just a tickle of sassafrass.

Afterwards, we talked about a trip to Provence. Maybe next spring.

I must have been crazy to think anything was wrong.

The Key (Sunday Scribblings)

According to my horoscope, Friday was supposed to be a MOST auspicious day for romance. So, after work, I packed some treats -- the traditional bottle of wine, crusty bread, a luxurious camembert, a ripe pear, and me -- and off I went over to visit Frank.

Frank, however, was getting ready to leave, his keys jingling in his pockets. He was meeting his friend, Mike, he said. At Casey's. He'd be back soon. Feel free to wait. Or. If I got tired of hanging out, just be sure to lock up before I left.

Casey's. More than a quick beer, I'd be willing to bet. More like a few hours, at best, a return accompanied by a thick haze of whiskey and smoke. Strong likelihood afterward of urgent groping. Probably not the sinuously developed romantic encounter I desired.

What to do? Wait at Frank's among the lush scent of the nocturnal jasmine, the polished plank floors, the purring cats, and warm lights. Or return to the shabby sparseness of my own fluorescent-lit kitchen.

I could lock up and leave anytime. Wouldn't make any difference at all. There was the key.

Sunday Scribblings