I adore our conversation until they end and I can’t seem to refocus my mind on anything but her for hours. I find myself hanging mental pictures of her watching me make Sunday breakfast. She’s wearing the French blue shirt I had the night before in the first picture. The silver cufflinks are still hanging from her wrists as she clutches my NPR coffee mug in the corner of the kitchen.
When that image goes back to the fantasy closet of my mind it gets replaced with another scene. I let her sleep while I pick-up clothes scattered about the floor and allow the smell of coffee and bacon to wake her. She comes into the kitchen and wraps her arms round my waist; I close my eyes when I feel her lips on my neck. This time she’s wearing that Agent Provacateur Dressing Gown that cost too much but was worth every penny at that moment.
Just when I think my mind is done wandering, there she is again on a Sunday morning. As we’re getting dressed for brunch with friends, I see her in a set of knickers and a bra that I just knew was designed to make us late. There is no more satisfying sound than the low moan of excitement… whether you’re hearing it, making it, or both.
There is something about this woman, something about Sundays, and something I’d like to know about the two together – though I doubt they’ll ever meet.
Posted by restaurant refugee 
