This rain.

Clouds and storms persist to the point that it's simpler to mention the day -- hours -- of sunshine instead of noting the precipitation. Ever since I put my watch away at the vernal equinox, I have been living by a schedule set by sunlight and dog walks, usually in the cemetery down the block but lately just a nip into the backyard between bouts of wet that oscillate from drizzle to floodgates and back again. The world has been wet for weeks. 

Tiu glares at the rain when we go out, and I wear long sleeves and pants to fend my way through the thicket of mosquitoes, a second plague that seems more insulting than injurious.

I have a blog post to edit.
I should be reading Marriage: A History or rereading The Republic or The Moviegoer.

Instead of any of that--instead of knitting or baking, even (there's a sea-salt Carmel shortbread concoction that is calling me)--I want nothing more on this grey Sun(less)day than to eat pasta tossed with plenty of olive oil, garlic, capers, salt, fresh basil, and a few golden tomatoes and then to curl up on the sofa with my new favorite blanket and some Tana French.
The editing can wait a bit longer.