The house is filling up again—graduate students (myself included) returning for naught week. My neighbor slams her door, rattles her keys, rustles a storm of plastic bags. I do not imagine I seem any quieter to her. And now everything smells of canned beef stroganoff, an odor which, with the interminable rumblings of the kitchen conversations, rises through the floor. This means, of course, that it’s going to be another few hours before I can appropriate the kitchen to make vegan udon.
There’s nothing to be done but huddle close to the radiator, which, though it is on the highest setting, is but tepid to the touch, and read. And begin to think that maybe I should stop reading and go for a walk.
The pigeons, though, sound disposed to be violent; it might be safer indoors.