I remember an unseasonably warm Sunday morning back in April or May, just before Phil and I were finished. I woke before he did. I watched him sleep in my bed for a few moments, his hair tousled and his face slightly shiny. Even with his mouth awkwardly drawn open in a somnambulist silent song, he was beautiful to me. Every breath, every blood cell, every synapse in my brain, every part of my being was entirely focused on being in love with him.
I let him sleep, slipped into a sundress, and walked to the market at Chicago and Western to buy groceries. The sun was everywhere. When I returned home, I kissed him gently on the forehead before preparing little breakfast tostadas in the kitchen. He woke up, groggily hugged me while I scrambled some eggs, and then we ate on the couch while Mikan rested on his purple cat bed.
If you had told me that my heart was responsible for the city's warmth that morning, I would not have argued with you. But we are now not far from winter, and I do not have Sunday mornings like that anymore. Some of the aspects are still present, others are easy to add, and others remain an implausibility in my mind, like 90-degree mornings burning up the soft Chicago spring.
I let him sleep, slipped into a sundress, and walked to the market at Chicago and Western to buy groceries. The sun was everywhere. When I returned home, I kissed him gently on the forehead before preparing little breakfast tostadas in the kitchen. He woke up, groggily hugged me while I scrambled some eggs, and then we ate on the couch while Mikan rested on his purple cat bed.
If you had told me that my heart was responsible for the city's warmth that morning, I would not have argued with you. But we are now not far from winter, and I do not have Sunday mornings like that anymore. Some of the aspects are still present, others are easy to add, and others remain an implausibility in my mind, like 90-degree mornings burning up the soft Chicago spring.
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