She used to think of herself as a morning person. She liked to get everything done in the morning. Eight to twelve. Those were her best and most productive hours. That was her idea. After that, she could still do whatever she had to do, but wouldn’t have the same amount of energy or brightness as she did in the morning. This was the story. So she’d meditate, journal, write, work, run errands all before noon.

In the city, she still doesn’t sleep much later than she did before, but she stays up later, goes to a morning meeting, sometimes, eats breakfast at one, sometimes, dinner at nine, sometimes, writes whenever during the day, works whenever during the day, runs errands whenever during the day, naps, sometimes, not always, but whenever, could be one p.m. could be six, almost never gets into bed at eight, will go to a reading at the last minute, will go to a late-night movie at the Angelika after her pajamas are already on, eats ice cream late at night. None of this is exciting, exactly. It’s different. It’s a little bit exciting. Mostly different. Maybe different really is what her husband meant by excitement. She wanted same.

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