The half-light makes the house seem dull and flat and sleepy still. I move around quietly, barefoot, warm bread in hand
I perch on the window seat
The glass reflecting back my nakedness, disembodied and without judgment
Sony's small body leans against my thigh
He gets bits of crust even though the sleeping baker would not approve.
The little beast shares his whole heart with me,
I think that deserves a bite.
Sony licks my sticky fingers.
“If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”