He kisses me and runs his long fingers down my back. He gets up, puts on the clothes thrown on the floor and makes me the coffee he had started 12 hours ago.
I always love looking around the floor surrounding the bed at the scattered remains. He asks if I would like a cup, handing me a small serving in a dainty floral tea cup that has been in this borrowed apartment forever. We snuggle and I read the New York Times together, miles away from anything going on there. He gets out his laptop to check the baseball score. Charmingly explaining each score, illuminating me on the extreme difference between the Mets and Red Socks. I drink my coffee like an english rose, smiling to myself. I won't tell him my Grandfather had been taking me to games since I was in diapers. I point out the picture of the Somalian Refugee on the front page. Eyes glazed in tragedy, beautifully shot by a photographer who went home to a meal after taking it.
He tells me about how he has a hard day ahead of him. I put the paper aside, "Oh please tell me about the hard life you lead." I laugh. "Well, I get up at 2 in the afternoon," he kisses the inner part of my elbow, "I wake up with a beautiful woman in my bed," he kisses my mouth, "And I have to get my haircut at 3."
1 comment:
this is beautifully written.
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