Sundays used to feel like waiting.
Waiting for Monday, waiting for Derek to get off his phone, waiting for the week to start so the hollow performance of the weekend could stop. I did not even realize I was waiting until I stopped.
Now Sundays feel like this.
Rhys's leg over mine under the duvet. Coffee going cold on the nightstand because neither of us moved fast enough. His hand drawing absent patterns on my back while he reads something on his phone and I stare at the ceiling doing absolutely nothing, which turns out to be one of the most underrated activities available to a human being.
"Stop thinking," he says without looking up.
"I am not thinking," I say.
"Your not thinking is very loud," he says.
I roll over and take his phone out of his hand and put it face
