Pre-dawn run to the grocery store. I forgot about the breakfast for his class.

They try to get me to sign a petition as I exit the grocery store and I want to tell them that I’ve already been warned by the folks on the Next Door app that they are being paid by the developer. Plus I’m not yet registered to vote here yet.

The coffee still tastes weak. I need to figure out the right grind.

The good thing about being early is having time to circle blocks multiple times in search of parking.

Taquine.

One pale blue plate with a small hunk of bread, evenly sliced. A small ramekin of olive oil. A pile of large flakes of salt. It’s almost too pretty to eat.

How is this my life right now?

The route home takes me up Claremont Rd., past the Claremont Hotel. I think back to last year when Jennette and A’Driane and I walked into the lobby to pick up some cases of wine that had been left for us to use at the ranch. I remember how oddly out of place we felt. But it is beautiful.

I sigh. He asks me what’s wrong. I tell him that nothing is wrong. It’s just that I had such a good day. That I couldn’t believe that I was sitting in Berkeley eating lunch and drinking wine with a winemaker and an artist. That it just seemed too good to be true.

Everyone hurry up and go to bed.