Mark had left by the time I got back to my place. Must have used the key in the window box. I saw evidence he"d been there, a bouquet of spring flowers smiling on my counter, probably picked from the perimeter of the parking lot up on the hill (they looked very familiar); the dishes were done and stacked on the drain board, the floor had been swept. Little stuff I didn"t have time to do anymore.
I was really my mother"s daughter in that regard, too, my mother who had spent her life painting and writing, not on housework or cleaning up. She"d been a good cook, though, but she was a good cook only because she was interested in the flavors and appearances of various foods brought together, an artistic concept rather than mundane, such as it was to me. I took advantage of her cookbooks and tr
