It was summer and we were both on holidays. He was in the shower; I was still in bed. He had always liked to get up straight away, a man of action, whilst I liked to lay and drift, warm and still brimming with dreams, content to stay under the covers.

After his shower, he returned to the bedroom to dress and to taunt me (“get up, ya lazy boner!”). I smiled broadly in response, but remained quiet, snuggling deeper into my cocoon. Sometimes, he insisted: “Get up! Have a shower! Start your day! We need to go shopping.”

“Shopping?” I moaned, raising my eyes to peer at him. “But I hate shopping.”

He laughed, shook his head. I stayed in bed.

Now dressed, he left the room again. I heard noises of coffee brewing in the kitchen - that slow drip, a spoon against china - and then he appeared again, this time with charm. “Excuse me, beautiful. I brought you a present.” He walked around the bed to place the cup on my bedside table, and then he stooped low to kiss me. Thanking him, I remembered how lucky I was. I rearranged my pillows so I could sit-half-sit and sip my liquid breakfast slowly, still dreaming.

The next time he left, I heard the tv come on, and the gentle hum of a soft South African accent reminded me that it was cricket season. I smiled smugly, knowing I was safe under the covers. There was no way he would make me go shopping while the cricket was on.

—
Written in bed,
January 5, 2012.