He says I nest. What he means is, when I come in the door and it’s cold, or I’m tired, or it’s been a long day at work, I crawl into the couch. The right-hand corner. Curled up, facing sideways under a suede and fleece blanket that was a Christmas present from my parents a few years ago. I like the curtains to be drawn back so I can see out the window, see the bare-branched trees and the house across the street.

It’s not conducive to productivity; I’ve lost hours like this, just sitting, staring, reading, half-asleep. But still, there’s something comforting about it.