It’s lunchtime and all the ladies on my floor have scrunched into one room, digging into salads, which doesn’t mean we won’t be pouncing on the apple cake someone has so thoughtlessly brought in and put enticingly on the table.
We will. If only because we don’t want to hurt her feelings.
As the room fills with chatter, I’m somewhere else.
A certain someone is coming over for dinner and I have no idea what to make.
After the downing of a certain green swill because the woman in the health food store handed me a bottle with the words, "Sweetie, you need to moisturize from the inside out," Mister Trevor Dog and I head over to the park.
And by "hanging at the park," I mean I sit on a bench and read Haaretz in English while Mister Trevor sniffs around, communes with nature and does his thing.