The front door closes with a noisy squeak. I turn from my computer, still in my pajamas, my hair escaping the clip on top of my head and flying out in dry, desperate strands that scream for a good moisturizer, a trip to the beach, for anything besides this room with overly-conditioned air. The phone collects messages I’ll never hear before they’re out of date. Stacks of books and papers hide the cat until he lunges up to catch a flying bug. He misses, slips and falls across my computer, hitting several letters on his way down. Dddddddddduuuuuuuuuuuuuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiooooo, he types, and I stare at the screen, feeling like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

“Nice day?” my husband wonders from the doorway after a quick glance at the sad, expired contents of the fridge, and I snarl, rearrange my hair into the nearly toothless clip. Ahhh. Rewriting!

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