Leaning toward the end of the Berlin novel

There was fog this morning, but I didn't catch it.  The trees are outrageous—pinks, purples, yellow platters.  The lilacs are heavy on themselves, the viburnum stealthy.  It is all out there, and I am in here, in Berlin, the pages of the novel printing now on my HP LaserJet.

It is Tamra Tuller's birthday week.

I want her to have this book of ours by weekend's end.