Sunday I meet Trish for brunch at the Marietta Diner in Smyrna. The diner is a huge place, which serves equally huge portions of food. I have a ham and cheese omelet with grits and wheat toast. I don’t really care for wheat bread, but it fits my meal plan so there ya go. Its actually second breakfast for me. I’ve been up for five hours and I ate organic raisin bran earlier.
Amid the clatter of cutlery and the muffled roar of a hundred breakfast conversations, Trish and I catch up. Her schedule, as she approaches graduation for her master’s degree, has become fairly hectic, so it’s been a while since we’ve had a long chat.
She is ready for school to be done. I am ready to be out of debt. She has been to Florida to visit friends. I need a vacation. She is wondering what her next step will be in her career. I am still considering getting a teachers certificate for Auto Cad. The conversation ebbs and flows around the events of our lives. We drink a lot of coffee.
When we are done we head back to Trish’s place so I can meet her new kitten, Bruce. Trish’s other cat, Amelia, had gotten used to having company while a cat owning friend of Trish’s was staying with her for several months. With friend and friend’s cat gone, Amelia was apparently lonely. So Trish went to the Atlanta Humane Society and adopted a kitten.
Bruce is a shorthaired cat, with that sort of fur that is so dark a shade of gray that it seems to be blue. He has large, expressive eyes. He insists on getting right in my face immediately, climbing my chest as I sit on the couch, purring full out and bumping his nose into mine.
He dashes about, chasing the impressive assortment of toys that Trish has bought for him. Amelia looks on, bemused. She is reportedly happier to have a companion again, if somewhat taken aback by Bruce’s boundless energy.
A couple of hours later I take my leave of Trish and her cats. Window down I cruise up old highway 41 under a breathtakingly blue sky. It is a beautiful day, not yet too hot, with a stiff breeze. Recent rains have cleared a lot of the pollen away and the air is clear. I stop at the Marietta Book Nook and browse for a while. I don’t find any fantasy or mystery books, but I end up getting a copy of Shakespeare’s The Tempest, a paperback of Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Sharer/Heart of Darkness, and a handful of quarter a piece, junk comic books.
I finish the day watching Hercules and reading Savage Sword of Conan.
As Sundays go, I’ve had worse.