julierichmond

It’s over thirty degrees tonight. I clipped the leashes on Bernadette and Jack and took them out walking after work.
It was still a little bit light. Everything is still covered in snow, patches of ice shine on the sidewalks.
We were able to take our time, as it grew dark, we kept walking.

We saw no one outside but when I peered into windows, I spotted people sitting down to dinner, or in front of the news, living rooms with coffee tables with nothing on them, and dining rooms set with plates and glasses. I couldn’t imagine anyone every throwing a temper tantrum or spilling a glass of red wine in any of these tiny, warm worlds I was spying on, as I slid down the street, two dogs, pulling, nose cold, my breath, white and transparent. But maybe that was because I only peeked into the houses with the curtains open, shades pulled.

I thought of home, with the coupons on the table, the leashes on the floor, the pile of laundry, nest of stray socks and the dusty can of tomato soup in the back of the cupboard.

We kept walking, until my fingers grew stiff, and I saw Bernie shiver under her coat.

When I walked in the door, a wall of warmth hit me from the pellet stove, and Katy’s music was playing a little too loud.

Katy was sprawled on the sofa with Casey, looking at photos from their trip to Cuba and to Chanel, curled up at the end of the sofa, gazing at Kate. There were dishes in the sink, but she’d put away groceries and wiped down the counters.

If someone looked inside at me, from outside our house, through the big picture window, they’d see a woman on a computer, at a table, with a half-eaten bowl of yogurt and blueberries next to her. They would probably see me turn and talk to Katy, or call one of the dogs over, because life is better with a dog near your slippers, as long as those slippers are not in their mouth.

They would see me, home from a walk, and happy to be here.