I should explain my mysterious terrible day post.
Last night I was backing away from my desk. I haven't really internalized the layout of my new place yet. I bump into stuff. Last night, backing up, I grazed a chair in the kitchen. I meant to pull my hand off the controller but my pinky finger hung on, caught. This is a problem as the weight of my hand, and to a degree my arm, is hanging on the controller, this time sending me backwards into the little table and chairs. The ensuing ruckus pins me between the table/chairs and the stainless steel counter top beside the oven. And by me, I mean my face, the right side, pinned against the steel, my body's weight resting there. I got the god damned pinky off the controller (if I have some sort of wreck or swerve the pinky is usually the cause -- I don't flex the wrist and fingers right and I lift my hand high to move the rest of my hand except it) but otherwise I was stuck. I tried calling for help but these brick walls insulate pretty well. After a while, I gave up and began figuring my way through waiting it out. Relaxing, ignoring it, which is a silly thought. But you think it.
To be short: I was that way for two hours. My cousin dropped by, who has keys. Luckily, we'd made nebulous plans earlier in the day.
When he helped me up, I was sore as hell, stiff, my face throbbing. A bit rattled from two hours or so of incessant pain but also a kind of exhilaration -- that it was over, the pain already fading, from my side at least. My face, my cheek, is sore.
Otherwise, back to normal.
The day began well enough: Sunday brunch at Pearl's Cafe. A seat by the corner window. Catfish, green beans, potatoes. Tea. Not bad at all.
I'd been finished a while, still watching the cars traffic through the square, when a couple in their sixties, I'd guess, walked in. Both were good looking but he led her and she seemed to dodder, to be unsure. Early onset of dementia. He was talking to the hostess, let go of her hand. When she looked towards me something in her mind sparked. She walked to me, put her hand on my shoulder. She said, clear as day:
"You must be the joy of the muse."
Then her husband had her hand once more and her language fell apart in her mouth. He led her away, dimmed.