Office

I want an office, a small office will do: one with a window or two overlooking a busy street, with hardwood floors, and bookshelves -- wooden bookshelves -- lining the walls. My desk, littered with notepads, will sit on a tattered Persian rug; my cocker spaniel, who will accompany me intermittently, will either lie on the rug in the morning sun or on the ancient hardwoods, near the clanging radiator, on autumn and winter days.

Rain will frequently fall outside the window of my office, usually in the morn. Around noon, the sun will shine in, around the neighboring skyscrapers and through the branches of a near-leafless tree that stands between my window and the street. My dog will frequently visit this tree, wetting the wrought iron that encircles it, though I urge him to let it alone.

A few simple photos will adorn the walls of my office; another will rest upon the corner of my desk. My wife and I, captured smiling in candlelight, will remind me that even on the worst days, this life is better than before.

And the whiskey bottle in the drawer will appear as long lost friends remove their scarves at the door.