Marshall and I are sitting in Victrola Coffee Roasters on Pike Ave. in Seattle.  It’s spitting rain out, and he’s reading The Brothers Karamazov, and I am drinking a latte.  My thoughts are scattered all over, since I haven’t really had a day to collect myself in the past week or so.  Christmas (and by that I mean too many things to enumerate in such a small space) filled its twelve days, and the day we took to pack up our stuff and decompress before getting on a plane for Washington was precious, still, small, and I ended up just wearing pajamas and looking at my presents a lot.  And drinking tea.  And then, whoosh, off to Seattle, where we’ve been getting over jet-lag by having coffee, checking out Lower Queen Anne, talking about all things with Katie Gray, and walking into Fremont and having Stone and La Garre tripels at Brouwer’s Cafe.

Should we move here?  For a year?  I think we’ll know by the time we fly back home.

 

 

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