Nothing special

We were supposed to go to dinner with friends tonight, but the woman doesn't feel well. Postponement leaves us with a quiet evening at home. We can look forward to it.

Today was just that all around--a quiet day but eventful in its quietness.

No rush to get up this morning, puttering around, playing with Sherlock. We later took him to the Reserve and the ruin of the Château where he sniffed and dug and lifted his leg. As usual we ooohed and ahhed over the Jura to the right and the Alps to the left, chatted with other walkers, stopped at the bakery for fresh bread.

Sherlock is "cooked" the expression we use when he's run himself into a needed nap. Rick is going through papers and I need to decide to whether to write or continue to read Inside the O'Briens which captures my loved Boston right down to the words "wicked" and "packie" or maybe both.

It is possible we may have ice cream later or popcorn. We might watch TV or Netflix. Or not. It doesn't matter. Whatever will be fine.

I was single so long I wondered about couples who did things together. How could they still enjoy each other's company? I still don't know about the other couples, but I so like the ease of just being with Rick. It will be eight years in May and I feel as if our relationship is new each day. It is more than his bringing a cup of Yorkshire tea and a warmed brownie in bed this morning.  He is here, all is right with my world if we go out, if we stay home, if we play with the dog, if we each do our own thing.

It just feels good.