Fridays (Friday Number Seven, September 29th, page 1 of 10)


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It is Tuesday evening and October has slipped in silently, with turning leaves and an evening chill. On nights like this I wish my home had a fireplace, a hearth to sit before and drink in the warmth of glowing logs, while I listen to the beautiful music that wraps me in its reverie.

I have purchased a sound system, as the man at the store described it. My machine plays compact discs that sound as if I'm in a quiet club, with only the pianist and me, as he serenades me with beautiful music. I am mellow; I admit it. Amy and I dusted off a bottle of cream sherry from a Christmas long since passed. We are wallowing in our contentment, as the music of Frederic Chopin serenades us. No, I am not turning into a closet drunk, although I can't recall, in my prior life, an instance of drinking so much as a glass of wine alone. Does that surprise you? My prior life? Tonight I'm feeling that way. I'm not such a creature of unbending habit, am I? Here I am writing in this journal and it's not even Friday evening!

Six short months ago, I would have come home to a soiled house with a dying old woman demanding my attention, with an annoying bell, followed by silence that offered no opportunity for discussion or compromise. I would have religiously preformed my tasks, flopped into bed exhausted, and after a few hours' sleep I would begin the ritual anew.

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