Sunday Morning

She walked into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, then turned to scowl at him.  Lowering the newspaper, he regarded her over the top of his glasses, admiring how perfectly his shirt draped on her body, how transparent it became in the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows as she approached the table.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” she accused.  “It’s Sunday.”

“The newspaper guy woke me up.”  He shook his head.  “I’m going to have to cancel the paper or be forced to buy a muffler for his crap car.”

“But why didn’t you come back to bed?”

“It was too early, believe me, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“We were going to read the paper, have coffee and breakfast in bed.  Stay there all morning if we wanted.  Because it’s Sunday.”

He stood and carefully took the mug out of her hand before lifting her in his arms.  He began to nuzzle her neck as he walked out of the kitchen.

She sighed contentedly.  “How long has it been since we stayed in bed on a Sunday?”

“Last week,” he grinned.

“An eternity then,” she murmured against his lips.