There’s a sweet spot on the clock in every house; a second in the day when the light comes in the window right, or the sun peeks through the blinds, or the neon sign at the deli downstairs buzzes on. A time that’s the right time for that house.
In this room, it’s 9:30 in the morning. The sun beams in with squares of light for the cats to roll around in like they earned it, and it’s aglow and quiet and warm.
That moment is a day-off luxury, tucking itself annoyingly in the middle of the work day. But like my friend’s dad who has a special coffee mug he’ll only use on weekends, it’s something to look forward to.
And at the end of this week, all I want is my sweet spot Saturday morning.
