summer, vacation

First morning in St. Louis. I woke up to Baby chewing her cage. She's adjusting well to her knew home. While I cleaned the kitchen, she sniffed the wind sneaking through the window. While I swept, she stretched out her legs, reclining like a Greek ruler.

Joe spent the morning with his work-training binder. I let Baby out on the floor. She dodged table legs and electrical cords, hopping onto Joe's papers. I left them together--"bonding," as Joe keeps telling me. He had accepted Jill, the guinea pig. He knew that she made me happy. He's enjoying Baby and her anxious tries to gain our attention.

Adding her to the (now clean) apartment makes St. Louis feel like home. Today, we are a couple belonging in a city, making our lives. Today, we will move the furniture in the living room and spend the evening grocery shopping. I will learn how to ride the bus. We will feel domestic, comfortable in a truly happy way--a contentment that doesn't feel like I am resigning myself to anything.

I catch myself filling in what people think when they see us together: a modern couple, a natural pair. I smile behind my sunglasses and new bangs. Then I pause and think, "Am I trying to hard? Am I trying?" I stop thinking about what other people are thinking. I slip back into my thoughts:

It is summer. I know this because the water in the shower is cool, and the sun makes the curtain and sink extra white.

I want peanut butter. I haven't had any in my house for over a week, and Joe has chunky, all-natural Trader Joe's just hanging out in the fridge.

Today, I will finish my social networking research report. I hope Laura at Earth Shares thinks my initiative-taking warrants me doing the writing aspects of the internship this summer, instead of the file thinning we talked about.

War and Peace is rather long. I want to read it this summer, but I don't want to get burnt out. Maybe I'll read one huge book every summer. Yeah, that sounds good. Next summer, The Fountainhead.

Lunch.