It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon at Chez Elisson.
Outside, it’s unseasonably warm. The white blossoms on the Bradford pears are gradually being displaced by new, green leaves. The yellow forsythia is out in force. In a week or so, this place will be a riot of spring color. Dogwoods. Azaleas. Damn, but it’s nice to live in Georgia.
I’m half-watching Top Chef while I scroll through my Bloglines feeds. And of a sudden, I notice the Missus’s almost angelic face, backlit by the sunlight filtering through the shutters, with the warm incandescent light of the end-table lamp providing fill-in illumination.
I’ve known her for over thirty years, and she gets better looking every day.