The spring morning sunlight streaming through the bay windows awakens me to a beautiful and quiet Sunday morning.. One of the reasons we bought this house was for those windows for we both do love to wake up to the sun. I hear your gentle snoring beside me and I reach an arm across the bed and lay it upon your shoulder. Such a long reach it is, across this king-sized mattress bought for when we had slumber parties with the kids in bed, or for when one of them would be snuggling between us to wash away the terrors of a nightmare. However, those days are long gone with Kayla in her last year of college and Justin usually sleeping until late as he enjoys his last dozen or so weekends as a high school senior. Now the king is just too big; we spoke of buying a queen, but we have never gotten around to it.
This early in the morning, it is just me, you, and Katey. I look at Katey at the end of the bed. She yawns at me, her calico fur glowing in the sun. She is no spring chicken anymore, and she likes to spend most of her days sleeping. She knows she has no chance of being fed yet, and is content to continue to doze, enjoying her first sunbeams of the day. Your breathing tells me you won't be waking too soon, so I slip quietly from the bed. Ugh, the first moment my right knee takes weight is always painful now from three surgeries and the damage from a bad collision on a soccer field some twenty five years ago. Can it really be 25 years? I stretch, my back crackling like popcorn and my left shoulder aching as I reach overhead. That one I earned hiking some ten years ago.
I look at you in that oversized t-shirt you like to sleep in, most of you covered by a light sheet. Yup, you and I have been together for almost 30 years. You still snore gently, slowly and steadily, so I know my clambering out of bed has not disturbed you. I use the bathroom, brush my teeth and strip out of my light summer pajamas. They are comfortable to sleep in and nice enough for you to wake up to, but I have the time, so I change into something better. A violet teddy with a little bit of lace and some matching panties. As I change, I notice the sag in my breasts and the folds in my belly. Oh, to have the body of a twenty year old again, but I am not bad looking for early fifties.
I slip back into bed with you. For quite awhile Sundays have been our time to be together, often sex, but not always. Sometimes just snuggling As I slide across the bed to be close to you, I think of how the futon that we spent our first six years sleeping on barely had the space for both of our lean bodies to fit. Money was so tight back then, we could not have afforded children although we always wanted them. However, I finished my PhD and you got your plumbing license and we were on our way.
I fold the sheet down to our waist and snuggle up against you, wrapping my arms around your belly (a much bigger belly than that of the lean basketball player I married) so I can spoon you. I remember the first time I ran my hands across your stomach. I had never intended to sleep with you that night, but you were so sweet I had to snuggle with you, and then those abs made me desperate to see more.
Our bodies still match well, and I feel my breasts against your shoulder as I smell your hair, clean shampoo, always Heads-and-Shoulders, and just a hint of your smell, which I could recognize anywheres now. Your hair was your vanity. Shoulder length black curls, but now you keep it short and make no attempt to hide the large bald spot. I was a little sad for you, but also proud, the day you shaved and embraced your older self. I think it gives you an air of authority which easily makes up for the loss of that rakish sense of wildness.
I slide my hand up across your still strong and powerful chest with a little extra padding on top. I circle your right nipple with my hand and I feel you stir a little more. My lips find that hollow between your collar bone at the base of your neck; you love kisses there. You take two quick short breaths and I know you are awake. You lay still, soaking in the feeling of my hands and my lips and I do nothing to break your reverie.
Instead, my hand wanders down from your nipple across your belly to find the bottom of your shirt. As I slide it up, I trace the edge of your shorts' waistband and then slide under your shirt along your side. You sigh in contentment, reminding me of Katey when we pet her under her chin and get her purring. I again toy with your nipple, circling and teasing, and nibble gently on your earlobe. You turn and smile, "Good morning, Christina,"
"It is Sunday and a beautiful morning, Anthony" I whisper in the ear I was nibbling.
"I'll be right back," you say and you heave yourself out of bed. Like me, you have your share of aches and pains, and you stretch your left hip and knee, both always stiff, before setting weight on your left leg. As you head for the bathroom I see you flexing your fingers and wrists, as you work through the morning pain of your arthritis.
I lay in bed waiting. I hear your urine hit the water of the toilet. Still strong, but your days of peeing like a racehorse are gone. When you finish, I hear the sink run as you wash your hands and the medicine cabinet open. Soon I hear you brushing your teeth, which makes me smile. You usually brush with baking soda toothpaste, because you love it so, but on Sunday mornings you use a mint flavor, because you know I like the taste when I kiss you. You know as well as I do that it is the little things that matter as much or more than the big things.
When you come back you have changed into black boxer briefs and nothing else. You, feeling self conscious about how your belly hangs over a bit now, asked me once if I still really liked you in them. "Oh, hell yes," I said, "Anthony, when you are wearing those I am not looking at your stomach." That was not entirely true. As you come into the bedroom I look over all of you. I see the tattoos on your left breast, nothing fancy, just my name and the names of our children in a simple script, and the dark hair covering your torso, now turning gray, that is so out of fashion now, but I do so love. However, mostly I drink in how your balls sit forward in the underwear in a pocket shaped by their bulk and how your penis, partially erect in anticipation of the morning, points slightly up and to the left. All of that is framed by powerful thighs, thighs that climbed many a ladder and carried twelve year old Kayla two and half miles across rough terrain after she twisted her ankle badly hiking Mount Washington.
