S I I V T E E R D E C N A ROM I forget my headphones on Monday.
ise. He passes me my lunch from the fridge and plants a loving kiss on my forehead, “Thank you; have a good day.” And later, I’ll return to find flowers on the counter and a note on the fridge that reads, “We’ll get ‘em next time.”
I forget my headphones, and I hear the birds — undisturbed, little things. They swoop lower than I remembered and sing songs; they’re not pretty ones, but welcome nonetheless. I imagine them saying, “Good morning, love,” and asking how I slept. These are words that I’d heard earlier that day, and words that I’d argue hearing every day are more romantic than any love song.
It’s Friday evening, and we both work late.
We order takeout so that it’s sitting on our doorstep when we get home. Tucked under a blanket that has been warmed in the dryer, we start Episode 8. I add that song from the
STILL
It’s Tuesday afternoon, and we’re walking to the grocery store.
soundtrack to our playlist, and we’ll fall asleep as the credits roll. Later, he’ll carry me to bed. And we won’t dream of anything, sleeping deeply ‘til morning.
His hand is in mine, and I’m practically high on that tiny, quiet love that comes with routine. He’s listing the things that we need to buy for the week, but I’m only half-listening. Forgetting is part of the fun. We made cookies last week without flour, and quiche the week before with only two eggs. “Recipes are suggestions,” I’ll declare, “This makes it more personal.” He’ll laugh, and I’ll laugh. And the outcome will be inexplicably good or understandably awful, but we’ll eat it anyway, enjoying what’s uniquely ours.
It’s Saturday evening, and we’re visiting my family.
It’s Wednesday night — date night. He picks me up from work, and we grab food to eat in the car while the sun sets. The sky is a pink-ish-kind-of-blue, and we’re singing throwback songs poorly but with heart. When a slow song comes on, I’ll jokingly – seriously – ask him to dance. And we’ll slow dance in the empty parking lot as time itself lets out a breath. It’s Thursday morning, and we argue about who forgot to take out the trash. I’m rolling my eyes, annoyed, when I turn to see him responsibly exchanging the old bag for a new one. “Next week is my week then,” I prom-
He’s peering into the oven and indulging my father, asking questions about how to best cook a roast. I’m opening a bottle of wine while discussing song selection with my sister. My mother sets the table, and soon we will be eating, drinking, and laughing. And on the drive home, with a full stomach, I’ll know this is as close as it gets to peace. It’s late Sunday morning – my favourite kind of morning. I get up earlier than him and start breakfast. Today, I decide not to decide and attempt to cook all the breakfast foods. The smell of toast and sunlight fills the kitchen, and I’m already excited to eat what’s left of this ridiculous amount of food for dinner and the rest of the week. I hear him stir upstairs and soon after, feel his arms wrap around me from behind. “Good morning, love. How’d you sleep?” he asks. And I tell him that I slept soundly and to remind me not to forget my headphones tomorrow. x
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