We didn't make it to church this morning. We glanced, one-eyed, at the clock at 7:30; rolled over and went back to sleep; did it again at 8:45. At 9:30 it was too late. A few minutes later I got up, put on my robe and went out to the kitchen to put the teakettle on and turn up the heat. When I went back to the bedroom a voice from under the duvet asked if it was blue outside. I cracked open the blinds: "Bright. Some new snow."
J. usually gets up first to make his coffee, and brings me a cup of tea with milk in bed; I stay there and meditate for a few minutes, trying to face the day in what are, to me, its worst moments. Last night I'd kept him awake, tossing and turning from pain in my jaw - I've been having a lot of dental work and a temporary bridge has screwed up my bite - finally I got up and took a tylenol and was able to go back to sleep.
I went into the living room and turned on the radio: it was the Rachmaninoff Vespers. Perfect. Back in the kitchen I poured the water over the coffee grounds in the French press, made myself some green tea for a change, put two brioches du carème - lit, Lent brioches, or hot cross buns - into the toaster oven, prepared a basket-tray with a red plate for the buns, a small bowl of clementines and strawberries. The deep bass voices filled the apartment with Russian that sounded like smell of the coffee. I picked up the tray and walked carefully back into the bedroom: Good morning, I said. He rolled over with only a small groan, and smiled.