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Barefoot Driver



We wake up when our dog shouts at us. Half past nine. Sun is shining. Mr makes toast in a frying pan: the grill pan is busy spitting sausage fat. Coffee is iconic dark. There's a line of medicinal wine stain on my lower lip. It smiles at me through mirror dust.
It doesn't matter to anyone if I clean the kitchen or not, so I do it. A pot sits on the Rayburn top, sweating vegetables. The washing machine rumbles. Windows stretch open, let the sky spill in.
No one looks at a clock until their belly prompts it.
If it feels like time to walk on the beach, it has nothing to do with clocks.
Some useful stuff is put in the car: like coats and house keys.
Flip flops are kicked off. Feet in sand don't mind if the sun drops or the waves wash cold.
'What a nice life we're having,' Mr says.
Bared feet feel the warmth of the car pedals.
We could drive anywhere. 


Comments

Suze said…
'What a nice life we're having,' Mr says.

Perfection.
5 May 2013 at 00:34
Stephanie V said…
I remember family vacations at the beach that must have made my Mom happy like that. it never occurred to me at the time.
5 May 2013 at 00:46
Sherry Ellis said…
I've never tried driving with bare feet. I might have to try it!
5 May 2013 at 18:30
Heather Robinson said…
That is about a bunch of perfect happiness and how lovely of you to share it with us--some would greedily keep it to themselves. Although I must say that the pupper in the backseat looks a bit nervous...about your driving barefoot?
5 May 2013 at 18:49
Lisa Southard said…
:-) Thank you all :-)
Dog looks pensive as we stop off at the supermarket: she doesn't like the car park. At least that's what I think it is. Maybe she is concerned about my driving!
6 May 2013 at 20:36
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