My ideal day would start at around seven o’clock, after a good eight hours sleep. I’d wake up beside you, in a huge, comfy bed, on sheets made from luxurious Egyptian cotton. Leaving you to sleep a little longer, I’d get out of bed, tip-toe across the floor to the kitchen, and switch on the coffee machine. I’d feed the cat and heat the milk for the coffee in a saucepan, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes while I wait. I’d pour the coffee and bring it over to the bedside.
You’d have woken up by then, stirred by that ecstatic aroma. Sitting up in bed, checking your phone, or stroking the cat. I’d kiss you and get back into bed and we’d have sex, while the steam rises from the coffee cups. We’d shower, get dressed and have breakfast at the little table by the French window. Toast, scrambled eggs, juice. More coffee. It’s spring, and the sunlight streams in and I swear, there’s a halo around your head—unsurprising, really, considering your arrival in my life was akin to that of an angel. We’d clear the plates and leave the house. I’d drop you at the train station, kiss you goodbye and drive to the library, where I’d spend the morning writing. I’d take up my usual table, in the corner, and start writing. Stories about finding beauty in the most mundane of surroundings. Of incredible fortune against all odds. Memories of childhood, of my grandparents and places we visited. My ideal day, over and over. Only I’d make it different every time. Different except for one thing.
Then I’d go for lunch. Meet my buddy, Alex, who works in the office ‘round the corner, and we’d eat pizza and drink beer and shoot the shit and laugh about our other friends and the stupid stuff we did at school, and I’d end up having one too many to drive home. I’d go for a walk in the park and fall asleep on a bench, or on the beach if we lived near the beach (we always talked about living by the beach, didn’t we?) and if the weather was warm enough. I’d wake up, an hour later, groggy, but smiling, and I’d pick up my book and read. Nersesian, Yuknavitch. Tom Spanbauer. Some Bukowski, maybe. I’d read until it was time to go and pick you up from the station, and when I pick you up, you’d be tired but you’d tell me all about your day, what you learnt, what the other students said and who annoyed you, and we’d drive home and make dinner, and we’d eat dinner together, at the table beside the French window.
After dinner we’d watch a film—or I’d read to you because you always liked that and you’d fall asleep on the sofa and I’d carry you to bed because in my ideal world I’m strong enough to do that, and after I’ve washed my face and brushed my teeth, and pulled the curtains closed so that there’s no gap between them (you could never sleep otherwise) I’d get into bed beside you and fall asleep and in the morning you’d still be there.