It’s wet and cold today.  The window screens are collecting raindrops like silver pearls, reflecting and distorting the gray sky above.

I’m sitting on the couch, curled up with Ollie next to me, sharing the blanket.  The aroma of the rooibos tea steaming from my mug fills the air with an earthy warmth.  I’m reading.  Plowing my way through a backlog of New Yorkers and contemplating the novels littering my bedside.  The new Norah Jones album, Little Broken Hearts,  provides the soundtrack.  Her golden voice suggests warmth, but her lyrics are acid.  I’m in the perfect cocoon.

That’s a lie.  What I’m actually doing is sitting in my office, with a distracting level of noise around me, still sipping a flat latte rapidly cooling in my travel mug, feeling my eyes itch from not quite enough sleep, daydreaming about what I’d rather be doing on this perfect rainy day.