a quiet sunday morning

It’s raining and I’m on lying on my couch. The smell of lemon poppy seed scones wafts from the kitchen, raindrops patter on the windowsill. The washing machine hums, the clock ticks and my keyboard clicks under my fingertips.

A. is in Norfolk, Va., for work. I went to two joyous parties last night — M. & M.’s party in lieu of a wedding in the courtyard at the International Center on R St., and a rooftop gathering for the Kroc fellows celebrating their year with NPR.

In the courtyard at M. & M.’s party, we sat six at a table, munching on veggie burgers, corn, pasta salad and homemade cupcakes. We drank white wine and talked about wedding celebrations and travel far and wide — N. and the Mister, who’s from New Zealand, married in Cairo five years ago. J. and L. married in Yemen last week and had two full-day celebrations.

At the NPR party, there was dancing to Michael Jackson on the rooftop, and laughter and smiles. “Boss lady!” S. kept yelling at T. and then saying to others: “She’s my favorite boss ever.” Late night, at the after-party at M. & M.’s townhouse on Florida Ave., eight women danced in barefoot on hardwood floors, screaming at the top of their lungs, “Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone. I hear you call my name. And it feels like hoooomeeee.”

Now, I’m drinking coffee and reading Shadow of the Wind, but Carlos Ruiz Zafron, enjoying the quiet — and buzzed off of the laughter from last night.

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