Parts of stories keep pressing in between of my day-to-day tasks. Not so much the language, a caught line here or sputtering alliteration that jazzes off my tongue when I'm staring out the window.
But just parts: a deaf woman falling in love with a gesturing and flailing mumbler.
A couple washing and drying dishes together while finishing off a bottle of wine who end up throwing all their dishes out the window against a brick wall.
I just saw Gold Rush with Charlie Chaplin imagining the dinner roll dance he'll do for his ladies on New Year's Eve. Two dinner roll feet, two skinny fork legs and his soft shoe and eyes.
It's the kind of elegance I hope to touch someday.