I am having a day when all I want is to do nothing. These moments arise infrequently but when they do they are hard to overturn. I am tempted to leave work for home but have not yet mustered the nerve. Once I do get home I cannot fathom what I would do. Perhaps I could read or write, but more likely than not I would nap, pretending to have some kind of ailment. I feel very slightly bloated from repressed gas failing to be expelled, but I don’t know if that warrants an excuse to take off early. I was hoping to go out for lunch but I don’t know if I want to sit in a smoke-filled restaurant blaring cheap Russian pop music and eat alone. The day seems pleasant enough except for the mild chill that I am feeling on my right arm and torso, since the temperature is set at freezing outside. Perhaps I will go there after all and order an ajarakan khachaburi, an oval-shaped baked bread bowl with cheese encased in the crust and two eggs staring up at me with their gleaming sunny sides. A delicate slab of butter tops it all off, then I usually douse the thing with black pepper before I tear it apart and ram the oozing, sloppy mess into my mouth, morsel after morsel. So it seems I can either go eat or sneak home and do nothing. Both are tempting during this frigid, sun-soaked day of winter.