Eyes tired, I blearily glance up from the impossible algebra homework in front of me. Rain tap dances consistently on my roof. It streams down the windowpane. Stretching my stiff limbs, I rise from the cushy spot on my ocean-like rug before proceeding to press my palm against the cool, smooth glass of the window.
Today is more of a curl up with a book day. Schoolwork can wait.
I tiptoe down the creaky, ancient stairs, determined to not disrupt the tranquility. Balancing on my toes, I retrieve the tea kettle from the top of the refrigerator. As the water heats, my fingers dance over the various tea bags.
While I wait for my tea, the gears begin to turn. Slowly, a story forms in my head. I make a mad scramble for my writer’s notebook where I frantically scribble the short tale.
My fantasy cracks and breaks when a sharp whistle sounds. I tumble off the kitchen stool and lunge for the tea kettle. The steaming water tumbles into the mug with the sunflower on it. I add a dash of sugar.
Back upstairs, tea in hand, my eyes trace over book spines. As usual, the choice leaves me conflicted. How can I choose just one book to read? My heart sighs with relief when I finally pick Sense and Sensibility.
Then I settle on my futon, the tea on the low table beside me. A fluffy blanket settles across my lap like a gentle old dog. I open the book and disappear into 19th century England. It’s as if Illinois in 2013 is no more.