The wool rug holds me this morning though the hardwood calls from across the room.

Something in the air tastes different — not rain, not pine, something else entirely that settles in the back of my throat. The light through the glass door falls at the same angle it always does, but today it illuminates nothing I recognize. Even Gus moves differently, his usual circuit through the sofas interrupted by long pauses at doorways, as though he too senses what cannot be named.

The cookie jar on the counter remains exactly where it has always been. This should comfort me. It does not.

Friday arrives with its promises — the frozen bone, the ritual of evening — but something in my chest pulls tighter with each passing hour. The ponderosas outside rustle without wind.

#pawscarwilde #fridayunease