Smooth apple skin under the knife in my hand, the other one cupping it firmly but gently lest I’ll be reproached for stealing its hide.
Bright time-change-day sunlight on my head and back through the kitchen window, a warm embrace of midday accompanying the slicing of now-naked apples.
The smell of cinnamon and Oreo crumbs on my fingers patting the crust in place, sticky sweetness in the folds of my fingerprints.
Rasping of the brush in time with the music. A stripe of clean floor by my right hand, dirty zone to the left still awaiting my attention and another song. The scent of sweet things baking mixing with that of soapy water.
The count of the crochet stitches like a string of pearls in my mind, doubles and trebles making figures and shapes in my lap. Bright morning sunlight and the sound of a keyboard tapping, my needle instinctively following its rythm.
Everyday-life-contentment. A complete lack of the ambition expected of me.
Need there be more?