So I've been spending a lot of time on my couch.
This is all right. I love my couch. It is purple, and very, very comfy. You pair my couch with a nice quilt and a pillow and you've got a recipe for cozy joy. I also like my couch because when you're napping on it, you get a good view of Mr. CR's bookshelf. As I lay around last week, basically staring into space, it struck me that I've never really looked at Mr. CR's bookshelf. I had a vague idea of what was there, but last week I studied it more carefully:
Back issues of Science Fiction & Fantasy magazine; Rads, by Tom Bates (which I've always wanted to read, by the way), Winter's Tale, by Mark Helprin; Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, Paradise Lost; Christopher Priest's The Prestige; The Riverside Shakespeare; and a couple John Grishams.
I loathe sentimentality, but I'd be lying if I said carefully studying that bookshelf didn't make me think very kindly on Mr. CR (not to mention the fact that he's been doing the laundry and feeding the cat, as well as helping me off the purple couch). So, are you sick of your significant other? Annoyed at something they did lately? Skip the counseling. Study their bookshelf instead.