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Author's Chapter Notes:
Because sometimes I really want Jim and Karen to be happy. Title from Janet by the Format.
Saturday mornings are spent with sun and sweat pants and her living room couch.

She scrambles eggs and burns the toast, but he eats it anyway, declaring, “This is the best fucking toast I’ve ever had,” and she laughs while a toy commercial plays on the TV. He gets crumbs all over the couch and in between the cushions, but she doesn’t mind because he always brushes them off quickly and she forgets they were there. He drinks orange juice and she drinks black coffee. She starts buying the juice without the pulp for him even though she likes the kind with pulp. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it, just smacks his lips after his first sip and says, “Mm. Vitamin C.”

He reads the paper while she watches cartoons. Sometimes she pulls the top of the paper down during commercial breaks and when his face is revealed, he raises his eyebrows in inquiry and she says, “Hey,” and he smiles, “Hey,” and then the paper flops back up and he shakes his head, laughing to himself. She scoots closer to him and wishes he’d finish with the sports section so they can read the comics together. (He likes to do all the voices.)

He kisses her sloppily while she’s putting the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Tells her, “C’mon, save those for later,” as his lips move down her neck until she starts laughing and pushing him away. She always surrenders though and lets him press her back into the edges of the counter and kiss her until they’re both sort of out of breath and embarrassed because they haven’t brushed their teeth yet this morning. And she thinks it’s cute how he bows his head and smiles and says, “Hold that thought,” coming back with a fresh, minty mouth. So she runs her tongue over his smooth, clean teeth and feels him smile.

They take around the neighborhood in hooded sweatshirts when it gets warmer. He holds her hand loosely and she talks about getting a dog and they watch the sun finish rising. They always linger for a while at his doorstep. There are soft and light kisses in between talk of their evening plans and then he makes her promise not to get mugged on her walk back and she says, “You know, we could just spend the day together. I’ve got some errands to run and I wouldn’t mind some company. We could get lunch.”

And so Saturday mornings turn into Saturday afternoons turn into Saturday nights. Until she thinks that maybe living two blocks away is like living together, but he doesn’t complain now and she finally feels right.

It’s contentment. It’s real. It’s everything.

t’s fleeting. It’s doomed. It’s nothing at all.


unfold is the author of 102 other stories.
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