The Dirty Sun.

This morning, I woke to a pink sky. For the first time in weeks the wind and rain had stopped battering us, leaves stopped swirling in never ending circles on the lawn. Squirrels could collect and bury their nuts without their tails slapping their faces as they did so.

The sun streams through the windows to remind me of the things I need to do, or didn’t do as well as I thought. I refer to this type of light, the sort that comes in low and shows up every speck of dust and glass streak it can find. ‘The Dirty Sun.’

Grunts and rumbles can be heard from overhead, a tap runs a cistern noisily empties.The Husband wanders down stairs fresh from sleep, scratching his head and looking about the room with a bemused squinting smile on his face.

I get it in first. ‘Can you see what this dirty sun has done to the table and windows?’ Without stopping for breath. ‘How very dare it leave such a mess.’
‘Let us just close the curtains then we don’t have to look, … what do you say?’
He smiled and replied. ‘It makes perfect sense to me.’
Such a considerate man. > I sigh <
I go back to writing while the cups clink in the kitchen and his voice heavy with laughter said, ‘Tea.’

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