I often day dream about Sunday mornings. Mine are far more selfish than this.
The perfect day involves a morning run by a river. A good paced run past West Village Streets. Which is ironic as I don’t run, but would like to learn. Then return to a three story brownstone, I own. The perfect day is wholewheat pancakes with a side of NPR or dancing to The Supremes with a curly haired toddler with blues and a man with ones that match mine. New York Times read in between laughter. The perfect day is no makeup, maybe mascara, burtsbees. The perfect day is farmer’s markets and cobblestones., and tailored coats. Perhaps a golden retriever. No, a Lab. No puggles, definitely no Puggles. Trees. Grass. And parkbenches and both toddler and dog fascinated by birds and street music. Bubbles maybe. Honeycrisp apples. Little roses. Cider. God forbid a muffin. Muffin crumbs to pidgeons. Full family on the swings. Walk home. Stop. Coffee. Little legs get tired. Carried. Alternating He laughs as she questions, inherited. I smile. Home. Tuck in. Nap. Lil roses in- vase mom bought, in kitchen. The only one we haven't broken. Drawing on fridge underneath a copy of ‘this is just to say’. Which they both agree is corny. Now. Both on couch, toes touch. The perfect day is feeling better just because you are in the same room. Feeling safe/loved/needed/ wanted but not thinking this. We divide paper sections, read, then switch. Both forgetting glasses. Toes touch. Bodies squished. Need new couch. Need another day off. But not thinking about these things. The perfect day is silence and words and feet that smell rank sometimes, and laughter due to getting pushed off the couch. Pillow smack getting back on the couch. Forgetting we’re the adults. Are we? Shit. The perfect day is Casablanca on AMC followed by Annie Hall or Manhattan or maybe even Shawshank. The perfect day is knowing the words to all the songs on the radio. But we never listen to the radio anymore and know most of the words to the songs on his ipod. But he’s obsessive about music so perhaps that’s not true.
Okay. We know all the words to those songs written before 1990. 93. Nap time over. Damn. Kid, darn. The perfect day is colored pencils and crayons and suns with smiley faces inside, although they are indeed unrealistic. The perfect day is take out, sitting on a floor, eating thai or Indian. Good thai or Indian. Without gas. The perfect day is a phone call with a sing song voice on the other end. The perfect day is baths. Stories. Tuck in. Silence. The perfect day is a good book. Read. Excavated. With cup of tea in hand. Perhaps 2 cups, glass of wine. White. Time stops. Pen. Words. The perfect day is hands holding, dancing, searching. Then a familiar kiss, followed by good sex. Good sleep. Good sex again. Better sleep.
This isn’t what I thought perfect would be, she thinks.