Pleasure is the alarm going off at 7, and ignoring it. Pleasure is waking up naturally at 8, when sunlight fills the room, and the dog is curled up warm against my side. Pleasure is having fruit or yogurt or Cheetos for breakfast. Pleasure is taking my time.
Pleasure is walking Riley the entire butterfly shape of our neighborhood. A half hour, a mile. His nose dips into the leftover piles of snow, searching underneath. His feet prance against the pavement. His head turns and his ears cock at the jingling of keys.
Pleasure is sitting down to write. Pleasure is seeing the words appear on the screen. Pleasure is making it to the next page, or noticing that the word count has quietly ticked to the next thousand mark.
Pleasure is another walk at lunch, reading on the sofa or at my desk, and doing chores so that Andy won’t have to when he gets home from work. The blinds are completely drawn back, and sometimes I see deer out the window. Riley barks, and I call him to me. He grumbles but then curls up on the bed, resting his head on my pillow, paws tucked under his chin.
Pleasure is wrapping my arms around Andy while he cooks. Pleasure is smiles and conversation over the dinner table. Pleasure is sitting side-by-side while we watch TV. Pleasure is half-pleading, half-laughing because we can’t get Riley to move into a more comfortable spot on the bed when we’re ready to sleep.
Pleasure is knowing that this was just one day. One day in one week. One week of many. A whole year stretches out before me. A whole lifetime. That’s a whole lot of pleasure.