I love Sunday mornings with you.
And because of that. I feel odd.
I wouldn’t say I’m lonely right now, not quite that, as I lie here this Saturday night. But that’s only because I have an energetic little kitten playing beside me, nibbling my fingers and licking my cheek as I settle down to sleep. (I wonder, would you let her sleep in bed with us? You probably would, because she makes me smile and you love when I smile. Besides, you like cats too).
But… I feel odd though, because it’ll be her I wake up next to tomorrow morning, and not you. It’ll be her attacking my feet and making me jump, rather than your body pressed tightly against mine, your arms wrapped around me, my hands clasping yours, as you kiss me gently awake.
My Sunday morning won’t start with you… and it’s a strange feeling.
Usually we wake up slowly, dreamily, lazily. I kiss your warm cheek and nudge my leg further against yours as you stir.
We’re often stuck together from sweat.
I smile when that happens. I smile because it means we’ve spent the whole night entwined, unable to part even for a minute in unconsciousness.
When you press your lips to mine for the first time on a Sunday morning, my heart beats quicker. When you tell me that you wake up so frequently during the night just to take in the fact that I’m the one sleeping beside you. That you’re spellbound because you’re in awe of me, because you love me, because you want me, because my head feels so perfect on your chest. I still can’t believe that I’m the one who ignites these feelings in you – I mean, fuck, I’d looked at you for so long, and you had no idea. But now… I feel so loved by you, and I hope you know that I so love you too.
We have brunch together on Sunday mornings. Often hurried, because we like to laze away curled up in bed, toes pressed against shins. Cereal for you. Toast for me. The news or the sports channel on TV. You chow down and rush to get ready as I laugh at you and roll my eyes lovingly. Because this happens every time.
‘They won’t mind if you’re late,’ I call from the living room, spooning sugar into my coffee.
‘You’re wrong!’ you respond, stumbling about, trying to find your shorts, your sock, your trainers, in the bedroom. ‘Look,’ you emerge, patting your hair down as you shove your phone into my face, ‘all from my cousin! He texts every five minutes telling me to hurry up, hurry up, four minutes, two minutes… I was supposed to be there 10 minutes ago! They’re going to be pissed!’ But you’re smiling as you say it, and I’m sorry darling… but I really do have to delay you by another 10 minutes, because you look so wonderful and so damn hot in your football gear, that I find I can’t stop kissing you.
‘What’re you up to today?’ You ask, when we eventually make our way down to your car – you to go to the pitch, me to the tube station.
‘Brunch with the girls from university.’ You raise an eyebrow.
‘But we just ate.’
I shrug and grin. ‘I like food.’ You lean over and kiss me.
‘And I like you.’