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[callmonday]

It's one of her favorite types of days.  Sunny but cool.  The sun is bright and shining while the day is cool and crisp with just a hint of fall in the air.  Oh it's coming and before she knows it, it will be here and after the leaves fall from the trees then the snow will come around cool and bright.  They had a lot of snow last year, a whole lot

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[callmonday]

The bees make her very nervous, she doesn't understand how anyone could walk among them and not be terrified of them. They always sound so angry and so pissed off, ready to sting the shit out of you. She likes what they give though, likes that they are thriving in this area, bees are becoming extinct in some parts of the country. She read that one night during the winter, in one of he many dark nights they spent together. During the winter she tends to write or to read, sometimes the radio is on but generally the nights are quiet and still. He sleeps a lot and she tries to be quiet for him.

Opening her eyes she looks at him and wiggles her toes, her butt wiggles as well but it's hard to do when you're sitting on a chair and don't have a tail. It's how she always greets him because she is happy to see him. "I added water to my cup."

[callmonday]

Despite his attempt to fatten her up she has generally retained her original shape. She has noticed his waxing and waning figure though. Not that she ever found him too heavy or too thin but she takes notice of things. Like how he looks different with the first bloom of spring as if has tightened up instead of loosened, how she has gotten grayer instead of darker. They are two clocks running in different directions. Him backward and her forwards. It's not something she speaks of often, but she takes notice.

Leaning her feet into his touch she closes her eyes again and smiles as she pushes into his palm. "He would never speak with you again if you were to water down his wine." Her grandfather still sends them wine, happily, and like last year there was a trip out to the vineyards. They are starting a yearly routine, odd, but enjoyable. "What does he have to say?" Emerson that is.