In the evening

Home.
The only sound in the dusty driveway lined by trees is the rhythmic purring of my bike. I turn off the engine, close my eyes, take a deep breath and breathe in the evening. It fills me just as it itself is filled with possibility. Pregnant.
I park the bike and pull out the house keys from my pocket. The satisfying click in the lock seems to be the prelude to a beautiful symphony, one that I, and only I, can conduct.
I walk over to the dark, panelled cabinet. The sun hasn't set yet. The yellow, oblique rays seem to be tilting their heads and smiling at me - just like you do sometimes. As I pour out a drink, the light stirs some faint memory. Like something I've seen in a movie, like the evening on some Texan ranch with miles and miles of beautiful, pristine farmland around. A twinkle catches my eye. It's the glass. The light reflecting off the intricately cut crystal, mixing, blending with the perfect drink and enhancing its soothing, mellowing effect. I find the remote and turn on the player. I make my way to the outside, climb the short ladder, onto the roof. In the dim light of the setting sun, the sweet strains of Miles Davis take me with them. Far away. Further and further, until I can almost see tomorrow on the horizon.
Wish you were here.