It's ironic, really. All my pleasures are homey ones: armchair splendour, the sedate excitements of domesticity. All I ask for are humble delights. A mystery novel in bed, the smell of ***'s long red-gold hair damp from washing, a postcard from a friend on vacation, cream dispersing into coffee, the softness of the skin under ***'s breasts, the symmetry of grocery bags sitting on the kitchen counter waiting to be unpacked. I love meandering through the stacks at the library after the patrons have gone home, lightly touching the spines of the books. These are the things that can pierce me with longing when I am displaced by them by Time's whim. And ***, always ***. *** in the morning, sleepy and crumple-faced. *** with her arms plunging into the papermaking vat, pulling up the mold and shaking it so, and so, to meld the fibres. *** reading, with her hair hanging over the back of the chair, massaging balm into her cracked red hands before bed. ***'s low voice is in my ear often. I hate t