The lamp is shaped like a vase, and much contested for its form-over-function nature. It's giving off a greenish glow that could be eerie, but here is homey. It's on the little fold-up table from a garage sale that Meghan and I found. Next to it is a stack of books, mostly mine, which, from the top down, are: Phonothek Intensiv, The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Poetry, an MLA handbook, French Women Don't Get Fat, Dave Barry's Bad Habits, The Art of Civilized Conversation, and Pippi Langstrumpf. The stack is atop my khaki purse and between Amanda's laptop and my BYUSA folder. The table is in front of our curtainless window; the lamp lights up some of the closed blinds and part of a headband on the sill. The light is creeping over the arm of the loveseat and giving the walls and ceiling a hint of lime, and everyone is asleep but me.
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