It's a Saturday, and they don't have to work. She's wearing the fluffy purple slippers he bought her for Christmas, and her feet make slight scuffling noises on the kitchen floor as she makes the coffee. In the living room, she can hear the muffled sounds of the TV, and then a slight chuckle as he laughs at the dog food ad that gets him every time.
She gazes at her slippers as she waits for the coffee. She was surprised when she opened the package, not sure what to expect - and then even less sure how to react to violently purple fur. He'd shrugged, sheepishly; told her that he wasn't sure if she would've preferred the blue. She'd laughed, put them on - and found the Breitling watch he'd stuffed into one of the toes. The watch was stainless steel, strength and beauty wound together. She wears it now, half-hidden by the tattered sleeve of her faded navy sweatshirt.
The coffee steams as she pours two mugs' worth, leaving his black and adding sugar to her own. Then she scuffles back into the living room, finding him spread out over two-thirds of the couch. She hands him the cup, squeezes in beside him; he never makes room. Not that she minds, really.
He smiles at her over the rim of his mug, and she takes a moment to admire him. Ratty jeans, worn sweatshirt, socks with a hole in one toe.
Perfect.
Perfect because it's nearly two o'clock, and they've only just got out of bed. Perfect because it's snowing outside and they can turn the heat up and snuggle under blankets on the couch, perfect because she knows there will be another of these days tomorrow, and next week, and the week after.
She turns her attention back to the TV, where Vivien Leigh is fleeing Atlanta with Clark Gable. She rolls her eyes slightly; she has little patience with old movies. He notices, winking at her, and she can't help but smile as she snuggles closer and lifts her face for a kiss.
He responds immediately, and after a moment plucks the mug from her hand and sets it aside with his. He kisses her again, slow and lazy because they have all afternoon, but leaving her breathless just the same.
Her fingers smooth through his hair, dishevelling the silver-threaded black. His own hands cup her face, tender as his lips make promises and whisper secrets, right there on the couch in their apartment...
She wakes with tears on her cheeks, and for a moment she doesn't know why. She is alone in her big bed, and that's right... isn't it?
But there are phantom kisses on her lips, phantom warmth surrounding her, and...
No more tears fall as she sits up, carefully winding the comforter around her legs, brushing half-curled blonde hair out of her eyes. The hollow space under her ribs is aching; she presses a hand to her heart almost absently, as she recollects reality.
She isn't wearing fluffy purple slippers, and there is no flash of silver from a watch on her left wrist. He isn't taking up too much space on the couch, and laughing at dog food commercials, and ignoring her when she nags him to get a haircut.
But it is a Saturday, and she doesn't have to work.
fin