Home alone
So you unexpectedly get an evening for yourself. There are oh so many things that you've been planning on doing when you get that rare evening alone. The movie that you never get to see because D doesn't like it. Or maybe just sit there on your own, enjoying a glass of good wine and something by Pärt on the stereo, preferably Tabula Rasa or Te Deum today, or maybe Gorecki's Sorrowful Songs. Or you need to fix up one of the websites, or any of a number of things.
So you do all that, or some of it. You watch a movie that only you like, and then you read a bit of Murakami, translated by Birnbaum, not Rubin. Not because Rubin is not good, he is, but because Birnbaum has a flair for Murakami's prose, makes it his, not a translation. He speaks with his own voice, the text flows without interruption, the words fly off the pages and whirl past your ears with a whirring sound, dancing, prancing. You like the voice, just as Birnbaum seems to love language. To accompany this, half a bottle of New Zealand Pinot Noir -- this one a beautiful light red, gamey nose with grassy overtones and hints of strawberry and raspberry that translate onto the palate. You taste smooth, soft tannins, fresh acidity, and that slight pinot sweetness with maybe the faintest hint of oak as it goes down the hatch. It is medium bodied, and with a long, fresh finish with game and red fruit. Simply delicious.
It's a perfect evening, and you really try to enjoy it, but something is missing. You're alone, of course, Lady D isn't there to share it with you. And you have to go to bed alone and sleep alone. Well, not alone, there are the cats and the dog, but that really isn't the same thing, is it?
What shall I do, I wonder, if she really does go to Dharamsala with N for two weeks?