I wake at 9.30—early for me.
The muslin curtains at my window are tinged pink with the sunrise. I roll over and wrap the clothes about me against the cool morning. The salmon light grows stronger.
"It's not just a curtain in the sunlight, Holmes; it's what your eyes see, of course, but the mind can do so much with it. What does the light mean, Holmes? What could it symbolize? The thinness of the curtain, that could mean a fragile state of mind—there are a million thoughts in there."
"Did you come in just to analyze my curtains?"
"Well, no, breakfast is ready."
I wake again at 11.00, and the pink on the curtain is gone.
I rise, dress, and go into the sitting room. My breakfast is waiting, but the teapot yet steams so it can't have been sitting there long. It will still be warm.
When I add cream to my tea, the gold and white make odd shapes swirling together.
"What do you think of that, Holmes? Just imagine how many ways you could look at it—like ink from a squid, swirling about a golden sea. Or the way it's mixing--it could be done completely without a spoon, if you let the molecules dance, you know. Doesn't that remind you of how, often, a situation will right itself, only slower and in a more subtle way than if there was intervention? What about that case last week—I wonder if I should make special mention of the golden badge that man wore. Wouldn't that be dramatic, Holmes? I think I'll do that."
"Do what you like, Watson, it's your story. Pass the jam, please."
"My story? Hardly. It wouldn't exist without you."
"A small point. Shall we walk to the park today?"
I watch the white and gold blur together.
The eggs are warm, the bacon is cold, and the toast is icy.
I light a cigarette after breakfast and stand before the window.
"You smoke too much, Holmes."
"You're a regular train! Ah, I know I can't stop you, though. Just--try not to smoke more than three a day?"
"If it makes you happy."
"It does. Wait a bit, there's my cab. Goodbye, I'll visit soon. Holmes—you know I will, don't you? Holmes? Oh, well, if you don't want to talk, you don't. I will be back for visits, though—certain as the sun will set tonight."
There is no metaphor that can encapsulate the agony I feel now, looking at his empty armchair. There are no similes that run parallel to my maddened thoughts.
It's as clear as crystal.