Soft Life

It’s an ode to the “soft life,” as they call it.
It’s Bill Evans’ 1964: My foolish heart on repeat (It’s what plays as I write this).
It’s locally sourced, overpriced pasta in my grocery basket.
It’s tiramisu for the train ride and tomorrow’s breakfast pastries tossed in there too.
It’s waking up without a plan for the day.
It’s finding your favorite things at the second-hand store- vintage frames for your doodles and hand-painted plates for the same three pieces of jewelry you wear religiously but won’t sleep in.
It’s coming home to your parents cooking a meal together- to your mom adding yesterday’s leftovers to the pot for “flavor”- they chose not to bicker today. Today you can be the child.
It’s an ode to the soft life- roaming downtown, eating meals alone by a window- to bookstore hopping and chatting with boutique owners. No, I will not buy that $275 dress- but I’ll still take your business card and fake interest for cordiality. You’ll say, “come again,” and I won’t, but I’ll give a wave and smile as we wish each other a good day.