A Sunday kind of love

You were my Sunday kind of love.

I would find you after church. You, still cocooned up in your blankets and still a bit sleepy. I, with my cold hands and cold face and the chocolate milk I picked up for you. You would lazily move around to make us something or order something.

‘ Can we order pastries instead?’

Muffins for you. Pain-au-chocolat for me. And tea. A cup after another.

We would read one of our books taking turns to read out loud. There is one we couldn’t get to finish. Another one that was simply a lot for you.

We would quietly do our own things together; I would write, you would read. I would read, you would write. I would scroll on my phone, you would listen to podcasts.

At times we went on a walk.

You were my Sunday kind of love.

But you were also my Friday night kind of love.

We would wait for the cab together, taking selfies.

‘Please don’t forget your phone’.

Talking about this and that on the ride. Exchanging glances as if we are schoolgirls.

‘Let me buy you a shot’.

We would dance together… we would dance with others… my eyes would search for yours around the room and I would find you searching for mine.

‘Sweetie, are you okay?’

Laughter-s. Pictures. Blurred pictures.

‘I would do anything for you. I would go to the pits of fire for you’.

‘Oh My God! Are you drunk already?’

Laughter-s again. A kiss. A smooch. A makeout.

Traumatized cab drivers.

And the bed. The bed that has seen it all.

You were my Friday night kind of love.