Pardon Me, Your Sudoku is Showing

There's something ridiculously satisfying about fitting the last number into a diabolical puzzle grid, as if that accomplishment has significant effect on the state of the world.  I like the stretch it exercises on my brain.  I like how it reduces stress to a simple combination of the numbers 1 through 9.  I like how the dollar store shelves stock the books in a seemingly endless supply.

It's become routine.  Put magic blanket in microwave.  Brush teeth.  Wash face.  Arrange magic blanket against mountain of pillows so it hits my lower back.  Turn on a sitcom or an old C.S.I.  Do a sudoku (or three).

Somehow I can channel any stress from the day through my pen, into the numbers and onto that grid, readying myself for a good night's sleep.

Scott will poke his head in the bedroom door and roll his eyes - what good's a wife in bed if she's got her nose buried in a puzzle? - so he'll sneak outside for one last cigarette, trying not to disturb our nocturnal odoriferous pet (read: skunk) that lives under the studio.  And he'll savour the cancer he's habitually breathing into his lungs, trying to time his re-entry for the moment I'm replacing my pen in the spiral binding because, surely, without the distraction of a silly puzzle, I will be ready to properly bid him bonne nuit.