Forget Paris. Romance is a Sunday.
I love sundays. Sundays are the absolute best. Forgetting about the trepidation of work following on Monday and just making the day an absolute non-productive/all relaxed span of time. I plan on making this true forever. Even in the future. And sharing that slow and quiet stretch with whoever I end up with. I look forward to domestic bliss in a way completely unbefitting of being the city mouse who likes tall buildings and the siren song of ambulances when he goes to sleep.
Because we can claim Sunday as our own. In the morning, in our house. White walls and old paint, our kitchen table will be oak and across it will be spread layers of newspaper, newly dropped off, for us to comb through and share. As we read and sip our coffees the sun will shine through the windows overlooking our snow covered yard. The morning light will hit the sill and the bright columns of colored light will intermix with glittering dust particles. Our robes will be clean, our toes will be warm and I see no reason why we can’t go back to bed if we want to.
But we won’t. We’ll get dressed and take the dog on a walk, maybe into town. You’ll go to that used bookstore where you like to run your hand along the spines of books as you walk down the aisles and take great intakes of breath smelling the yellowing pages and aging covers. I’m going to stop in at Ed’s and have my hair cut and listen to him talk about friends from the army and baseball players long forgotten. We’ll meet back at the square next to the statue and begin a slow leisurely walk home as the sun dips deeper toward the trees that line the horizon on all sides. Maybe we picked up a movie that we can half pay attention to as we sit and decide what we want for dinner. After this, we can sip tea and watch the streetlights buzz on. Then to bed and after what transpires there I want to read a book I’ve always loved as you slumber beside me, one hand outstretched and laying against my chest.
Oh my fucking god, that’s going to be so fucking AWESOME. FUCK PARIS.
Forget Paris. Romance is a Sunday.
I love sundays. Sundays are the absolute best. Forgetting about the trepidation of work following on Monday and just making the day an absolute non-productive/all relaxed span of time. I plan on making this true forever. Even in the future. And sharing that slow and quiet stretch with whoever I end up with. I look forward to domestic bliss in a way completely unbefitting of being the city mouse who likes tall buildings and the siren song of ambulances when he goes to sleep.
Because we can claim Sunday as our own. In the morning, in our house. White walls and old paint, our kitchen table will be oak and across it will be spread layers of newspaper, newly dropped off, for us to comb through and share. As we read and sip our coffees the sun will shine through the windows overlooking our snow covered yard. The morning light will hit the sill and the bright columns of colored light will intermix with glittering dust particles. Our robes will be clean, our toes will be warm and I see no reason why we can’t go back to bed if we want to.
But we won’t. We’ll get dressed and take the dog on a walk, maybe into town. You’ll go to that used bookstore where you like to run your hand along the spines of books as you walk down the aisles and take great intakes of breath smelling the yellowing pages and aging covers. I’m going to stop in at Ed’s and have my hair cut and listen to him talk about friends from the army and baseball players long forgotten. We’ll meet back at the square next to the statue and begin a slow leisurely walk home as the sun dips deeper toward the trees that line the horizon on all sides. Maybe we picked up a movie that we can half pay attention to as we sit and decide what we want for dinner. After this, we can sip tea and watch the streetlights buzz on. Then to bed and after what transpires there I want to read a book I’ve always loved as you slumber beside me, one hand outstretched and laying against my chest.
Oh my fucking god, that’s going to be so fucking AWESOME. FUCK PARIS.
