I ache in the places where I used to play

Sing it, Leonard.

The manboy is back after more than three weeks away. We ate spaghetti. We trimmed the fake Christmas tree (well, he did most of it. I stood in the kitchen, minding the dinner, while he, in his robe, wrestled with the branches trying to make it look less sparse).

The cold drove us to bed by 8pm. Yes, the cold.

No, not the cold. I lied.

And afterward my hair looked like Robert Smith's.