One Sunday night, somewhere in the future, you'll be here. One of us will cook pasta for dinner and the other will wash the dishes when we are finished. Two glasses of wine. And we'll eat properly at the table, instead of in front of the television.
And when it grows dark, we'll take the couch. We'll share the spot and you'll let my feet burrow under your bottom to keep them warm. We'll watch hockey, or football, and we'll both pay attention. But we'll both understand when either one of us grabs a book, or our computer, and starts reading something else to scatter our attention.
The Sunday blues know how to find us. And surely we'll complain about work, talk about stress, and tell each other that it will all be okay. We'll believe each other with wavering degrees of success as we pop popcorn for an evening snack.
You'll laugh at me when I get up to iron Monday's outfit. And hang it from the back out of our bedroom door. Because I like to be prepared for the morning, and you like to push my buttons. But the joke will be on you when, you have to get up earlier than me.
And when it's finally time to shuffle ourselves to bed, you'll close the blinds, shut the door tight, and completely understand when I put a blanket over my eyes.
Letter #52: On Future Sundays
Posted by BrassyLibrarian at 10:04 PM
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