The perfection isn't in the perfection. That'd be too easy. The edges too neat.
It's in the way the air hangs, ripe with vanilla bean, citrus and Chet Baker. Watching the hills turn blue and the kitchen go brighter. Knowing that work is far away, your email farther. Nothing to do but make it delicious, open the potato chips, crack your big toe.
You take an easy breath.
You can't bottle time, but you can hold it. Rare and wonderful. It just melts with you.