After a thoroughly gratifying session of morning sex I decided I could indulge me some more. I've been yearning to head out into the sun and bake myself for days now, no weeks. Today seemed opportune. You see, first thing after waking up, we had sat on the porch and later the deck, sipping on tea and marveling at the fucking world. Its green, its blue, its beaming straight at me, all over. So I got back home, tea-d myself up some more, grabbed my freshly arrived copy of Byomkesh Bakshi mysteries and took off. I hounded for a sweet spot in the park. I settled on one, then another and then one more and finally decided that the shifty characters and background noise of road construction wasn't really doing it for me. Usually I would acknowledge failure and head back home, tell myself it wasn't meant to be. But instead I roamed about some more, and decided I was gonna try another park. I headed home, grabbed some change, another book- the Black Prince, Murdoch I think (Bakshi is best left on the screen I am afraid, slightly amusing for the 1932 Indian-ness of it), bought a box of baklavas and settled on what was in fact the sweetest spot. Not a man to pester me, not a fly.