Breakfast takes forever on Sundays. He sits on the kitchen table with his New York Times. We speak briefly only when I announce my displeasure at the half eaten bagel that he has been nibbling for the last few hours. He smiles, and does not improve his pace of eating. I roll my eyes. Unlike other days, I make myself an orange spice coffee as a treat. Something about Sundays begs you to treat yourself with something special, no matter how small. It makes you dream of a day at the spa. Sundays ask for mindless browsing of magazines, baking banana bread just so the house is filled with the cozy aroma of bananas and chocolate, and go berry picking.
Sundays warrant a trip to the farmers' market. I take photos while he tries to shop. Sundays make you crave carnival food like corn-dogs and funnel cakes.
The couch is so inviting on a Sunday afternoon. It calls for marathons of old, long-forgotten T.V. series. Sundays ask for eating on the couch and not doing the dishes afterwards. It invites long baths with chamomile salts and lavender scented candles. Sundays tempt to share some skin under the covers to blues classics and make some moments unforgettable, as the rain continues to fall into the night.