The weather is sundress-and-sandal perfection, the kind of day where I would ordinarily wear pants anyway because my legs could do a passable bear-rug imitation.
I walk over to an analog writing session at a local coffee shop, where a dozen writers are gathered with typewriters and notebooks. I am here only because I wanted to feel my legs brush together all softie-like while I walked outside in a dress. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.
I write longhand for hours, crossing and uncrossing my legs. Yaaaaaay.