These characters don't belong to me

Sleep, baby, sleep

Now that the night is over

And the sun comes like a god

Into our room

All perfect light and promises

There’s a sense of someone in the room.  Someone touching him.  Pam, it’s Pam.  Soft lips on his neck, her arm snaking underneath his as she snuggles up behind him. 

“Mmmmmm.  What time is it?”

“It’s early.  Just 7:00.  Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep.  You’re doing that thing on my neck.”

“I’ll stop.”

“No, don’t stop.”

Finally, he groans loudly, rolls over on his back and scoops her onto his chest.

“Why are you up so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep.  I don’t know.  I just popped up like toast.”

He squeezes her to him and kisses the top of her head.

“And now I’m up.  Thank you, Pam.  Did you sleep okay?”

“I don’t think it was sleep.  It was more like a coma.”

“Last night was….”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

They’d moved past new and slightly awkward.  They’d moved past, ‘oh, I see how this works and what you like.’  They were now entering, ‘how can I completely blow your mind?’ territory.

“I made coffee.  You want some?”

 “You’re very perky on so little sleep, Bees.”

“I’m glad you’re up to play with me.”

Ninety minutes, two cups of coffee, and one completed crossword puzzle ("You’re turning into Stanley!”) later, she’s restless.  He’s reading the box scores, she’s scanning the movies.   His right hand rests on her bare thigh.  She inches a little closer to him and puts her own hand on his bare thigh.  She sneaks a quick peek at his face.  No reaction.  He’s lost in the world of baseball.

She rolls on her side and props herself up on an elbow and drinks him in.  She loves this Sunday morning ritual they have.  She’s always up first, she always makes the coffee.  She’s usually wearing one of his t-shirts and he’s usually in his boxer-briefs.  She wakes him up with kisses because she can’t wait for him to wake up on his own.  She brings the newspaper and two cups of coffee back to bed.  They camp and read and sip and laugh and argue over the puzzle.  She makes up words.  He teases her.  She tries to steal the pen from him, but he won’t have it.  When she reads quietly, he slides his hand under the t-shirt.  She props herself up higher and rests her hand in his hair while she reads, winding it around her fingers.  He rubs his feet on hers.  She tries to get him to commit to plans for the day and he won’t do it before 11:00.  That’s the rule. 

“There’s an art festival on the river today.  Or we could see a movie.”

“Mm hmm.”

“Are you listening?”

“Mm hmm.”

“You are not.”

“Art festival.  Movie.  Is it eleven yet?”

“No..”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

He pushes the paper off the bed and rolls over on top of her, grabbing her hands and pinning them above her head.

“Every Sunday, Beesly, we have to have this talk.  God!”

She giggles.  His knees are on either side of her and his hair is sticking out and falling over his forehead.  His beard is in serious need of a shave, but it looks so good on him, she doesn’t care.  He kisses her, careful not to scrape her soft skin.  It’s too much, he’s too much.  She can’t wrap her mind around it all and her heart wells up. 

“I love you so much.”

He squints at her when he hears the serious note in her voice and then he notices the tears at the corners of her gorgeous green eyes.

“Hey…what?”

“It’s nothing.  Nothing bad.  I just love you.  I love Sunday mornings with you.”

“Yeah.  Saturday nights are pretty good, too, huh?”

“Saturday nights are amazing.”

“I’m a little partial to early Tuesday afternoons, myself.”

“Really?”

“Mm hmm.  And Thursdays.  Late morning.  Awesome.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Absolutely.”

But when he relaxes his elbows and stretches himself out on top of her, he’s serious.  He weaves his fingers into her hair and buries his face in her neck and takes in her scent and lets his lips roam over her skin. 

He makes his way to her ear and he whispers, “I love you.  Every day.”