Red leaves under grey skies

Today is getting better. At some point in the wee hours--perhaps when I was chasing the cat out of the bedroom, the bitey little weasel--I did something to my right knee and it took a painkiller for me to get back to sleep. It was especially hurty when I bent it, so I was worried I wouldn't be able to face a day sitting at a desk. But it eventually calmed down, so here I am. Even before then, I hadn't slept well. My chief mistake was making a call at 10:30 the night before. But it was my boricua friend Mango, who I've kinda been blowing off for a while, so I felt obliged. He'd had a date go really well and wanted to burble about it to someone. We ended up dredging up l'affaire du Lutin once more; I was equanimous enough at the time, but I had a dream shortly before bunging my knee in which I gave him a talking to that he barely acknowledged, so the talk must've gotten to me after all.

But I remembered to bring my lunch, and it was tasty--the ham monshu brined with brown sugar on a sandwich with fresh spinach and roast red onions. And I got a sweet note from Lupita, who I'd mailed a couple days back to tell him about a dream I'd had in Door County. Nothing really risqué or bizarre, but he was in it and it made me feel calm and warm in an unfamiliar place; I thought he might like to hear that and I was right. He reminded me how badly we fucked up our friendship in the early days, which is water fifteen years under the bridge, and that reassured me that perhaps I'm not a hopeless moron when it comes to complicated relationships after all.