The hours

At 5 pm I climbed back under the covers, having not set foot outside my front door all day. I have work to do, but it is intermittent. I realize I really like when I'm staring down the barrel of deadlines and chained to the blue screen. I'm not forced to decide how else to spend the hours. Today, after sending back 20 revision notes on the galley of my book, there was nothing else pressing to do. I ended up wasting the entire day, watching the latest episode of Top Chef, surfing New Hampshire primary returns, laconically adding a few pieces to the half-done jigsaw puzzle on the dining table. Then, under the covers. I lay there trying to decide if I was depressed. I decided that I wasn't, that my bed was simply the warmest and coziest place in the house. There's snow on the ground outside, and a draft at the windows, and my thoughts have too much space to roam. My man just came home from work. I greeted him unapologetically from under the comforter, Kindle in my hand. It's Shrove Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday. On this night, they do a pancake dinner in the church hall. The men do the cooking. I thought I might go with him and mingle. But the bed cradled me.