I work at the kitchen table because our apartment is so small. The table is my drawing desk, a place to eat and talk with my husband, my spot to set up still lifes. Sometimes it is where I write letters to friends and family long distant, or make observations in my small red journal. Sometimes Ryan clears everything off and we play a board-game at night, with the blinds closed behind us, and the lamp overhead very yellow in the dark. During the day it is one of the more pleasant places to sit in the apartment, since I can lean my head on my hand next to my houseplants and gaze out the window at the wind tossing the distant trees, far off over the rooftops. It gets so dark in winter.