Orson hums a long-ago song (The very thought of you, and I forget to do, the very ordinary things that everyone ought to do) but he doesn't believe the lyrics, as love has never made him forget what ought to be done.

Long ago and far away a girl gave her heart to him, but all too soon she left, saying, "Your love for me has to be more than room temperature," which Orson thought was overdramatic.

He hums while he runs the sweeper over the  neutral (unassuming) Berber…

I received an unexpected email yesterday from someone I dated briefly 20-plus years ago, had totally forgotten, and barely recalled even after searching my memory files. My reply, in fact, to his email was: Who are you?

It's not important, he's not important, but what IS important is that he was able to find me.

Because I blog widely -- politics over on Like The Dew and fiction in four different places -- it's hardly as if I'm a shy recluse. But I have been careful to maintain…

On Saturday evenings, we let the furniture speak.

Harry and I leave home to allow privacy, usually for a movie and coffee, and by the time we get back, things have pretty much settled down.

However, I'd learned that the small green chair -- the soft, corduroy one I'd bought on sale at Kubinec's Fine Furnishings -- had been bullied of late,…