happiness in small ways

Blue skies, wet streets. At night I find my old copy of Octavia Butler and read it to you in the bath.

We share a cup of tea on clean sheets, listening to the sound of rain, which will stop as soon as we put our raincoats on. Petrichor tastes sweet through the open windows, rising from the garden grass.

Now we walk to the bakery to choose pastries as big as your face, and we sit at a table and order flat whites and cappuccinos, or, any other combinations of ground coffee, hot water and milk, soothing reminders that it’s Sunday and there is no better place to be.

Fruit and vegetable stalls are open, and people walk that leisured way only those who are required nowhere else on earth, can walk. We walk that way, without rush or haste, and when the thunderstorm brews we run to take shelter in a paint shop. I love you, spells the painted draft.

We visit a museum where people have listed things that make them happy. Green spaces. The smell of my partner’s armpits. Chocolate biscuits. Wonky socks.