It is still dark outside, and through the window comes the rustle of the wind across the roof, the steady spatter of rain falling on the deck. Here in the kitchen, there is the burble and hiss of the De'Longhi espresso machine, the rattle and hum of the refrigerator in the corner.
By rights, there should be the smell of toast too, but it will be an hour or so before I can handle even the idea of toast. April is a "bang up" month for migraines, and I have awakened with a whopper - thought about doing prescription meds for it when I opened my eyes this morning but opted for an earthenware beaker of industrial strength espresso instead. The stuff in my cup approaches the consistency of solid propellant rocket fuel. Steam rises in arty curls from the surface, and a splendid darker froth rings its shores.
Why is it my thoughts always turn to Paris when it is raining? With beaker in hand, I am looking through my rainy day "stash" of Cavallini rubber stamps, vintage postcards and notebooks - the small ones with maps of France, old French postage stamps or the Eiffel tower gracing their covers.
Rain or no, it will be a grand day, and when the migraine has expired in my espresso sea, I am just going to curl up in a corner somewhere and read.