Howitzer

It's a slow, Sunday morning. Miles Davis trumpets serenely in the background, as I look out into the dripping rain. My eyes scan the unending gray clouds, as I sip on a cold stout. The wafting scent of coffee beans and chocolate pierce my senses, while my tongue rolls the flowing malt flavors over. Soon smells from my oven drift over, signaling that a delicious meal is almost ready. It feels like time has stopped, if just for an afternoon.