Sundays

I woke to you carrying in a cup of tea and my laptop. The dog settled on the bed next to me. I edited a chapter. The dog snored, legs akimbo. I browsed Facebook and sent some emails. You let the dog out and we made love. We had a shower, dressed and changed the sheets on the bed.

We walked the dog in the park, in the flickering sunshine. I held your hand, you tripped on a tree root and jarred your knee; two weeks post arthroscopy. A game of football was playing. You stopped to watch and pretended to pick up the dog’s poo, before stuffing the empty bag back in your pocket.

“It’s not on the path,” you said in defence.

We left the dog outside Waitrose and got breadcrumbs, parsley and coffee. I bought lunch for the Big Issue seller, a chicken wrap, coke and walkers crisps and some nappies for his youngest. You said in the car on the way home, you would get to heaven on my coat tails.

You made me lunch; ham on fresh cut bread with mustard and tomatoes. I made us coffee. I sat outside on the hammock with a book. You watched the football. I put the roast lamb on and visited my parents for a cup of tea. You ironed five shirts.

We ate dinner, one teenage child absent, the other getting full attention.

The sun sunk, the dog snored, the absent adolescent returned, my fingers tapped the keyboard. You passed me a joint. I stopped to take it.

“What you writing?” you asked me.

A love story, I said.