I let the dog out of her kennel and put a cup of kibble in her bowl. The umber quarry tiles in the kitchen were a bad choice they are always cold. The coffeemaker comes on in the kitchen below as I leave the bathroom, go downstairs in bare feet, pause to put away a pair of boots left splayed in the downstairs back hallway and to lift the newspaper from the back step. My robe lies at the foot of the bed, printed cotton in the summer, tufted chenille for the cold. My husband stirs briefly next to me, turns over, blinks, and falls back to sleep for another hour. This is my life: The alarm goes off at five-thirty with the murmuring of a public-radio announcer, telling me that there has been a coup in Chad, a tornado in Texas.
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