Sunday Morning...

...nothing beats the first lazy stretch of the day. an elongated slow movement of the body that tunes the mind to the fact that the night is over. its a brand new day. the mellowness of last night's dream is fading. its time to wake up.

you are not late riser, but you sure are groggy early on. but you know that you are a morning person. its a whole new you for a whole new day. even if its a Sunday. you can walk across your own house with your eyes shut. you know the contours of the place like those of your own body. the coffee-table is always there next to your couch. it always has been and it always will be there. just like the birthmark on your arm.

somethings have to be the way they are. call it the only part of you that is the stickler for custom and is highly superstitious. the old pagan part of you. it is the little things. like how the water must boil first. how the coffee has to be beaten into a thick musty paste before finally adding the sugar. no milk. milk ruins coffee as do all other anomalies that are the little deviants from your daily routine. evil deviants, you hate them, unlike the newspaper that nests silently at the doorstep waiting to be picked up so that it can tell you what is it that is wrong with the world today. the TV spews the same news vocally. the radio does not work. you don't remember the last time it did. ever since they invented the i-pod. radios became obsolete. as did music ever since they started smashing melodies in an electronic box with beeps and freaky robotic sounds. rock n roll died a long time ago. you lived on. as did everybody else.

this morning the kitchen is your refuge. it protects you from everything that the world has to throw at you. the knives and the salt give you a sense of security as do swords and spears to a warrior. when you have them at arm's reach you are invincible. its funny, the feeling of security provided by the spices and the cutlery. something they call the placebo effect types. they have a name for everything, the scientists.

the toast slightly singes in the toaster. the eggs scramble upon the gas as they always do. the parsley is missing today. the little stick-on on the fridge door gets a new scribble. "Parsley and Oregano". it shall be bought before the day is out and the note shall be crushed up in to a ball and chucked in the garbage bin. such is the short life of the stick-on note.

its time to go and wake her up. you go back across the hall on tip toe, as if the cacophony of the noise you have stirred up so far hadn't woken her up yet and the sound of your footsteps would. you sneak into the room. she is still asleep. she is still dreaming. a faint smile dancing across her lips suggesting that it is a pleasant dream. maybe she is dreaming of the seagulls along the harbor. she always dreamed of them. you extend your hand to reach out. caress the line of her brow. wake her up. but you can't. you can't take your eyes off her. her beauty enthralls you and takes your breath away. you do not have the heart to put an end to her dream and her smile. you remain standing. staring. for a few long minutes you remain as you were and then you quietly sneak into bed as well. her fingers curl around your arm and instinctively she cuddles in closer. her head resting below your chin. her smile elongates further. you smile too.

...the coffee is going to get cold. but you no longer care.