Ten days ago. 1:00am. I’m sitting alone in bed reading The Best American Essays of 2010 while Hobbes, my orange cat, purrs beside me.
I hear sirens outside, but that’s not unusual since I live near a major intersection in Aurora and ambulances often race to accidents on I-225. As the sirens go by, I read that Tolstoy made fun of tennis until he was given a racquet at age 68, then became an “instant tennis addict,” playing 3 hours every day. He exhausted his friends and family with his obsession. I find this amusing and plan to mention it at my next tennis game.
The sirens seem excessive. It must be a bad accident tonight.
But I don’t think much about it. I put my book down and fall asleep.