Routines
He loved waking up to find her next to him, or to hear the shower running. They just worked together. They fit. Her blonde curls would be sprawled out on her pillow on her side of the bed, and she would wake up with much difficulty. She would raised her head and rub her eyes blearily. She would look over at her husband and a small smile would always fall upon her lips. She would creep out of bed as not to wake him up, pushing the blankets aside. Her bare feet padded out of the room, leading her into the bathroom for her morning shower.
By the time she was getting dressed, he would be in the kitchen cooking. She was a terrible chef, no one wanted food poisoning. The pot of coffee was ready to go, black, just the way she liked it. She would stride into the kitchen, buttoning up her blouse. It took him all his might not to unbutton it when he caught a glimpse of her skin.
He handed her the plate of eggs and bacon, receiving a kiss in return.
"I have so much to do today," she complained, taking a long sip of coffee.
"Crazy hooligans messing up the school?" he asked with a smirk.
She rolled her eyes, "You have no idea."
She had become a high school guidance counselor, to everyone's surprise. Her life pretty much sucked when she was younger, and she thought that if she had someone to talk to back then, she wouldn't have gotten into so much trouble.
"I'm sure they're not that bad," he replied, taking a bite of the breakfast he prepared.
"Oh, they are. Especially this one kid. His parents are almost as bad as mine," she seethed slightly. That kid had a messed up life with a drunk for a mother. His father left two days after his birth, and suddenly showed up to 'bond.'
"I find that hard to believe," he frowned..
"Oh, he is. I can't tell you much, confidentiality thing, but vodka and school don't mix well."
"He has a tough life, he can sober up."
"Either way, he's a high school student. He shouldn't be doing that," Sam replied primly, crossing her arms across her chest.
Spencer laughed, shaking his head, "You're not that much older than them. You sound so parental."
It was true, Sam was twenty-six, not even ten years older than the seniors.
"Better to relate to them, m'dear," she smiled, standing to deposit her empty plate and mug in the kitchen sink.
Spencer washed the dishes and Sam rushed to the bathroom to brush her teeth again. It was one of her little quirks.
Their apartment was 'organized chaos,' so to speak. When Sam first moved in, Spencer was regulated to three drawers in the five-drawer dresser. Sam had placed all of her clothes in their newly shared closet, rattling something about breathable fabric. The bathroom had become cramped. Toothpaste, toothbrushes, Sam's small collection of make-up, Spencer's shaving cream and razor, Sam's razor, Midol, and pads, all sat behind the mirror of the medicine cabinet. Spencer's art was scattered throughout the living room and upstairs in Carly's old room. It had been transformed into an art studio with different sculptures, paintings, and sketches. The paintings were propped up on the wall, the sketches in various notebooks stuffed into various bins. Spencer's art had become more popular with the Seattle crowd, and it sold for a pretty penny. He often had gallery showings at the art gallery downtown. He stopped teaching at the state university when business picked up, but did occasionally act as guest speaker for art students at middle schools and high schools.
Sam's files and paperwork were mostly in her office at school. She brought home students' files sometimes if she ran out of time during the school day. More often than not, she would be in charge of overseeing after-school detention. She would sit at the desk in the detention room and the memories of all of her detentions would come flooding back to her. She was such an awful kid back then. Most of the kids she saw didn't want her to be 'shrinking' them. She would dole out pamphlets and books and give measured advice. The worst were the addicts and the pregnant girls, in her opinion. The addicts were easier to talk to though, she knew what it was like, her parents both being druggies and alcoholics; the girls were simply hysterical and hadn't told their parents.
After a few months of living together, Sam and Spencer had gotten a routine down pat. Sam would wake up first, take a quick shower and by the time she got to the kitchen, breakfast would be ready. Sam would head to work. Spencer would then take a shower and get dressed. He would retreat to his studio and sculpt, paint, whatever came to him that day. He would venture to the supply store once every week or so to re-stock. He would get calls from different galleries and different people interested in buying. He would get requests from the eccentric wealthy people for elaborate sculptures, and do his best on each and every one. Sam would get home at four, except for Tuesdays when there were staff meetings. Once she got home, she would fall onto the couch, without fail. She should've remembered how awful teenagers were. Spencer would start on dinner at six, they'd eat, and every few weeks would go to an art gallery or a movie. There was nothing wrong with a routine that worked.
Spencer and Sam were able to predict the other person's movements. The way Sam reached for the coffee mug, how she could tell when Spencer was behind her. Whenever Sam woke up, she would hit the snooze button at least three times, annoyed by the early morning routine. Her clothes were always set out the night before, after checking the weather report. Spencer would smell her shampoo on the pillow when he woke up, he found the smell of strawberries soothing. As he shuffled into the kitchen, he'd know by heart where Sam's belongings were. He could tell that she was dressed and walking into the kitchen when he caught a whiff of her perfume.
Sam trudged into the house one Thursday afternoon, shrugging off her coat and hanging up her bag on the coatrack. She kicked off her flats and sunk onto the couch, without fail. She had been on her feet all day. A fight broke out between two students which had turned into an all-out brawl involving ten students. She was walking down the hall to the teacher's lounge when she saw the fight. She used her old brute force and split them up, threatening to get them expelled. The students got sent to the principal's office, parents were called, and Sam gave a lecture on violence and handed out informational pamphlets. She felt like a hypocrite, having started her fair share of fights a decade ago. The two students who originally started the fight had a week suspension and it was noted on their records. The other eight students had three-day suspensions. Tomorrow, the school was to hold an assembly on violence after worried parents called in to express their concerns. Sam shook her head. They were coddling these kids way too much. No wonder most of them were spoiled brats who thought they could get away with everything.
"A fight?" Spencer raised a brow during dinner.
"Is it bad that I found it a bit amusing. Their faces afterwards, I mean?" Sam smirked. Those punks deserved it.
"What were they fighting about?"
"Honestly, I have no idea. Apparently it's over a girl. That's just dumb as hell."
Spencer snorted. Sam sighed, rolling her neck. She became a counselor to help kids, to give them the advice she never got. She has no reason to regret her job choice.
After dinner, Sam stretched, exhausted. She unbuttoned a few buttons her green top, feeling stifled. She fanned herself as she sat on the couch. Spencer sat next to her. She rested her head on his chest, calmed by him playing with her hair.
"Any new sculptures?" she asked.
"Yep. For that crazy Elsner."
"The magazine publisher?" Sam asked.
Spencer nodded in the affirmative, running his hands through her long locks.
"That's great," she smiled, lifting her head to give him a soft kiss.
It were these little, simple moments that made everything worthwhile for them. It was comfortable and they were happy. How much more could they ask for?
I'm not sure whether or not I should continue this. It just came to me as a one-shot. Please review.