It's Sunday morning. Thanks to Day Light Savings Time either starting or ending, I always forget which, we have been granted an extra hour, an extra Sunday morning hour, which is a beautiful thing.
At some point my spouse wanders into the sunny room where I am sitting with my coffee. He sits down next to me reaches out for my small cold hand, holds it firmly in his large warm hand, looks me in the eye and asks me what my plans are for the day.
I haven't made any but I imagine how nice it would be to take a walk with my guy.
It's unseasonably warm, the sky is a crazy autumn blue, there are piles of leaves to kick through.
I get a bit nostalgic for those Sunday mornings when I was younger, before kids, when Sunday mornings could be about cuddling with my man without fear of being besieged by children with big eyes and embarrassing questions.
I start to fantasize about my perfect Sunday. I let my mind wander for a moment. I imagine a scene of unspeakable debauchery and pleasure: a quiet house, a hot cup of coffee, a warm spouse, a warm bed, a stack of interesting reading material, and a day without any outside demands.
I'm too ashamed to admit my deepest desires. I say, "I don't really have plans, what about you?" His look conveys to me the torment of unspoken longing. I know the depravity his soul craves: to sleep until noon, to shuffle through the house in his comfy slippers, black sweatshirt, and ripped pajama pants, to wantonly strew art supplies around on the dining room table while listening to Tom Waits without the annoyed and annoying chime of high pitched children's voices, "EWWWW! I hate this terrible music! And why is the lady in your picture naked!" He longs to cook spicy food, eat it on the couch with his cozy wife and watch all 14 episodes of Firefly in order one after the other. He wants to leave the dishes in the sink until tomorrow.
But he doesn't speak about his fantasy, nor do I speak of mine. He says instead, "I'm
going to paint the porch." I say, "I'm going to do up the laundry, finish pulling up the dead plants in the yard and maybe trim the roses back."