Mornings with her had always been his favorite.
He wasn't a morning person-this was for sure. He hadn't been born one, hadn't been one in high school, had made sure that his clases were after 9 in college, and only got up now at the crack of dawn because of how much he loved his job (but don't tell anyone). It was only during the time that he was living with her that he actally enjoyed the hours before the day began, usually long before sunrise.
This wasn't because they slept in, either; Sundays, it was true, meant mushroom omeletts and bagels with lox and long foreign policy debates, and (if he were lucky), breakfast was generally preceded by some not-so-innocent morning activity. But weekday mornings were hardly as relaxed, and for some reason he loved them just as much.
On random mornings—he never really knew when they were coming-she'd warn him that she was setting her alarm insanely early-no, really, Toby, 4:30-and that she'd sleep in the other room if he preferred. He always laughed her off, telling her that even fewer hours of sleep with her by his side would be preferrable to a night spent alone. This line, and ones like it, earned him either kisses or smacks on the head, depending on her mood (of course).
On those mornings she'd groan at the alarm at 4:30, burrow further into his neck like a kitten in her slumber-"Toby, make it stop." He'd laugh a little, and slap at the snooze button, and enjoy her extra twenty minutes of sleep as much as she herself did-he couldn't fall asleep after being woken up (a problem she clearly didn't face), but her warmth and the contentment of a good job and his own home and the wife against him kept him happy. He'd thread his fingers through her hair, marvel at the red and the radiating heat of her scalp, the warm of her breath, the supple, pliable presence she formed against him. But by 5 she'd be up, bustling, and usually he'd be up with her. They'd trudge to their little kitchen in their little apartment (sometimes he still marveled that it belonged to them, just them), and he'd hardboil her eggs and pour his cereal while she made them both coffee and they talked about nothing, or adulthood, or silliness, because real talking came only after caffeine.
When they were properly caffeinated she'd spread out everything over their little white formica counter, folders and papers and legislative reports, and she'd make him tell her everything about something domestic (because she was the expert on foreign policy in their relationship, as much as it pained him to admit it). He'd talk to her about tax reform in the Maryland 5th or the new FEC policy or the speech he'd been working on, and she'd listen and nod, chew on her pen and scribble down notes and he'd ask questions just as much as she did. She was qualified for her job, she always had been, but now that she'd decided to run for Congress she'd decided (and she wasn't wrong) that she needed to know everything (absolutely every little thing, Toby) about all domestic policy, whether it applied to her district or not, because she refused to make a fool of herself on the floor and she was a smart girl and who was he mocking anyway.
From 5 until 6, they'd sit, and sip, and talk, and depending on how helpful or mocking or unintentionally cute he was, sometimes he'd get to join her in the shower afterwards-those mornings were always the best. Either way, though, those were the only times he'd voluntarily get up early-because though she didn't say it (didn'tcouldn'twouldnever), those were the mornings she needed him and he'd always liked to be needed.
Mornings nowadays are a little lonelier. There's no ridiculously early alarm, true, but something about being able to sleep as much as his own job allows smacks of solitude in a way that's not altogether pleasant. He still, to his shame and chagrin, cannot manage to work the coffee pot in the apartment-he swears the thing can recognize a female touch and rejects his own. Now the morning showers are always alone, and he can never seem to remember which white shirt is the best or what goes with what or what he's supposed to do with the milk carton when it's empty.