The half-light makes the house seem dull and flat and sleepy still. I move around quietly, barefoot, warm bread in hand

honeyed, buttered

I perch on the window seat

The glass reflecting back my nakedness, disembodied and without judgment

Sony's small body leans against my thigh

He gets bits of crust even though the sleeping baker would not approve.

The little beast shares his whole heart with me,

I think that deserves a bite.

crumbs fall

Sony licks my sticky fingers.

and then,

as instructed,

I murmur:

“If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”