morn·ing: noun, the first or early period; the beginning

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It’s a warm Thursday morning in April and she’s got the kitchen window open (which, she points out, is kind of a huge deal because she has to prop it up with this block of wood to keep it open for any extended period of time). The breeze coming in has this soft and sweet smell of blooming flowers and he watches her smile to herself as she reaches for the bowls in the cabinet.

“It’s a nice breeze,” he comments, watching her back, her angular shoulder blades moving under her tank top as she pours the cereal.

“Yeah,” she says without turning around, the pieces of cereal falling into the bowl with a dinging noise, “It’s finally starting to feel like spring.”

She walks across the kitchen to the refrigerator and he absently grabs her hand lightly as she passes him, letting it go after just a split second, just enough time for her fingers to squeeze his. He turns his head to watch her bend over to retrieve the milk. When she does her tank top rides up just enough to expose that patch of skin between its hem and the waistband of her (no, his) boxers. He resists the urge to reach out and touch it with his fingertips, run the palm of his hand along that expanse of skin and forget breakfast completely. And then she’s walking back across the kitchen, pouring the milk into their cereal.

She moves to the sink in front of the window to get spoons from the silverware drawer. And it’s her skin and the sun and the spring air pushing through her hair and how she keeps smiling to herself that cause his sudden burst of forward momentum. And then here’s there next to her, his hip resting against the edge of the sink, because he’s learned that he has to take advantage of these moments.

She turns to him one corner of her mouth raised, two spoons in her left hand, and her shoulder warm against his chest. “What?” she asks, her smile growing wider.

The spoons clank together when he kisses her. It’s slow and long and when he pulls his head back, her lips are still pursed and her eyes are still closed and then she smiles lazily putting her hand on his chest, coaxing him in for another kiss. He gives in, moaning quietly when they pull apart. He rests his forehead there against hers for a second, both of them smiling. Then he quickly lifts his head and goes back to the kitchen table.

She drops the spoons in their cereal and brings the bowls over to the table. She comes up behind him and places the bowl in front of him with a quick kiss just below his jaw. And it’s when the ends of her hair dance across his bare shoulder that he starts to think that maybe the world doesn’t begin and end with Pam Beesly.