on sundays, they could really be together. she would wake up before him to practice yoga in the living room and to make french press. then, she'd shower, put on his sweater and climb back into bed with two cups of coffee and a sketch pad. he'd wake up gradually. touching her leg and the space behind her knee - taking in her scent slowly. savoring the notes of lavender and, sometimes, honey. he loved her on a level that even he could not understand. he'd been trying to explain it since they'd met but words always seemed to trivialize his emotion - leaving his feelings hanging there - suspended in the dew-kissed morning.
sometimes, he'd play her a song. and as the beat and rhythm quickened and the horns and chorus rang out he'd say, "listen to that. right there! that is what you do to me. that is how i feel."
he always asked to see what she was drawing. and she trusted his opinion above all others. even more than her own, sometimes. and so, with her blessing, he would slowly show her what he thought.
if there was a tweak to make, she would tweak. if some blue needed to be added to the green, she passionately added more color. if he said, "put that away and just lie still," she would put it away and just lie still.
on sundays, he focused only on her - sometimes even forgetting that his trunk of chains existed.
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