Lost Weekend

The electronic chimes of the First Baptist Church sound in the distance, tolling midnight in emulation of London's Big Ben.  My wife sleeps, beyond the reach of the Florida House of Representatives, which owns her every waking hour while it is in session.

We elected to attend the 7 o'clock Mass, which allowed us to sleep late and read the NYT.  She worked from home on a bill, while I laundered dirty clothes.

We had thought to go to the Jewish Food Festival at Temple Israel and view the Tiffany Angels windows at FSU, but it was a  cold, wet day, and we stayed home.  I hung socks and underwear on drying racks that I had brought inside, and was grateful that the rain had washed the pollen from the air, where it crusted yellow around the storm drain at the end of the drive.

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