We seem to have developed a habit and I kind of like it. It is the Sunday morning ritual. We wake up hung over, he slowly drags the palm of his hand down the middle of my back and that's all it takes. I roll over slowly and look him straight in the eyes and smirk, because he loves it. He doesn't say so, but I know it. We get it on once or twice, never more. Sometime before 11am we make it out the door so we can have brunch with the church crowd. And they judge us because it is quite clear that I am wearing last nights clothes and that we are sinners. I have french toast, he has eggs over easy. I smile at all of the children to spite their judgmental parents.
We go home and then we get it on two or three more times, then we take a nap, or pretend to take a nap, but usually I stare at the backs of my eyelids and think about things like the ecology of the African plains and about how there is no such thing as the American novel. And then we wake up and get it on again and then I go home and usually stop at Starbuck's and order a grande non-fat, sugar-free vanilla latte.
I accidentally ate a Whopper jr. and french fries too. It is my firm belief that it is the only cure for a hangover. But you can yell at me and tell me that I am on the path towards obesity and it will probably make a difference in my life.
3 comments:
I am pretty much sure that you've just made me think that this gentleman is one lucky man. He'd better have called you pretty.
PS - I am trying a new blog.
He hasn't called me pretty. My friends tell me that I am too good for him. But he is hot hot hot, so I will refrain from complaining.
Oh nk, your new blog is so sneaky. I am excited.
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