0 Comments62 Views
This content is unavailable.
I'm laying on the sofa, engrossed in my current book, when the swoosh-click of the front door closing alerts me that you're home. Although unwilling to leave my literary hideaway, my senses uncurl gently as more sounds filter through the room. The gentle slide of your rucksack as it falls from your back and the small bump as it lands on the hallway floor. I can imagine you taking off your sweatshirt and dropping it on top of the bag. Then your heavy boots clump as you step from the hallway and into the living room. On occasion the footfall is muffled as you walk over the corner of a thick rug that lays on the parquet floor. I don't call out to you. The silence in the house is golden to me. You have your get-home routine and I know it intimately, as intimately as I know you now. The thudding of your boots comes ever nearer, and your presence tears me from the pages, although I can never be angry at you for that