There's something intoxicating about an empty house: the quiet security and liberty of unafflicted movement. An inviting sofa by the window shrouds me from watchful eyes, save that of the grateful gold finch at the feeder.
I read at my own pace to listful classical masterpieces. The quaint rebellion of a struck match sparking a solemn smoke. I am wooed by Daniel Day Lewis alongside Michelle Pfeiffer as I nestle into a romantic favorite, The Age of Innocence. All made possible indoors.
There's no need to look over my shoulder, holding my breath at the entrance of another person. The space is mine: no one to care for or tend to. No expectation of productivity or poise. Idleness can be a healing gift. But too much idleness, I am learning, is a plank all to precarious.