It was hard to define the sound. I tried. A kind of cracking, like that of breaking of hay stalks, infinitesimal. What was it? I was sitting reading outside. He had gone in. Sometimes I would raise my head and watch the butterflies, mostly white ones (are they Cabbage Whites – I heard someone say there is no such thing?) fighting or mating (again who knows?), at one point there were five of them. I could make out the grasshoppers (he says that they are not cicadas – we don’t get them in this country, apparently) but that other sound was different. It was lovely sitting out there in the heat but with the occasional wisp of a breeze. And with that own private mystery – a field mouse?
The sea was lapping again this morning.
What am I doing it for? Is it for an audience of one? And is that enough?
I got my assignment comments back and my heart sinks at the negative, even though the positive far outweighs it. It’s a habit that makes him cross.
How I love him.