Saturday. I shut my alarm off and wait for a little while. You tell me in your beautiful grogginess that it is time to wake up. I tell you I will be up in a few minutes. This is untrue. I turn and snuggle into your arms. There is no protest; you hold me instead. I sleep for another half an hour until I do get up. I let you sleep for a little bit, but then you come into the room and exclaim, “You’re sitting here!? I thought you were in the washroom.” “I got up and came here.” I say while taking a sip of my coffee, facing a partially solved crossword, to which you say, “I had to use it! I was waiting!”. “Well, use it, then come back to me.”
“I love you,” I smile.
“I love you, too.”
Then, you unfurl the mat in the hall and stretch a little in your gym clothes right in front of me. I take an extra ten minutes solving the crossword. And then, you go out for chores. I order the groceries in. I nap while trying to meditate—for a few minutes until I realise it is time to begin the day. I get ready. You get back, having picked the groceries up from the gate. Then, you get ready, too.
Then, we waste a little bit of time waiting for laundry to finish its buzzing and humming. I take care of the bills—the rent, the credit card, the savings, and the rest—and I plan a little about the rest of the day. Then, the washing machine beeps, and I spread the sheets and covers on the drying stand. I come back in, walk to the kitchen, and unpack the new mould to fry some eggs. I brush it with oil and begin. You stand beside me, watching intently like a curious child. The pan sizzles with each one I drop into the round ring on the pan. I cook them one at a time; I cook two for you. Then, I cook two for me, too.
“What is left to do today?” You ask me, as we lay in bed.
“Nothing. We have the whole day to us.”
“Will you go to the lake with me?”
“Of course, we’ll walk around it.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”