Friday, My Saturday
I stare at him every night while he sleeps. His peaceful face is too beautiful to be real. He’s taken to snoring lightly when he sleeps on his back. Soft, low rumbles. Now gentle deep breaths.
The movie flew by like never before and now, in the midst of Powerman I know I’m almost alone with nothing but my thoughts. I want to edge closer to him but I toss and turn to the point of disruption.
Oh, Champs Élysées.
Sleep is just out of my reach. I want to fast forward to going out for breakfast tomorrow but I know when that finally comes I’ll be so exhausted it’ll hurt to extricate myself from the warm blankets.
I told him I want him to take me out somewhere tomorrow night where I can wear my boob dress. The Crosby, most likely. One Starving Artist and a Stella or two, and just like that the weekend will be gone. But then, they don’t really seem to ever arrive these days.
