Lazy Sunday afternoons are underrated.
In lazy Sunday afternoons, he doesn't go straight to the office library after lunch, and she can drag him with her to the kitchen to wash the dishes. It's much less of a chore when they splash bubble soaps at each other, and ten minutes less in front of the sink is ten minutes more lounging in the living room.
In lazy Sunday afternoons, their answering machine is on and electronic mails are set to automatic replies.
In lazy Sunday afternoons, she is free to wear her flimsiest tank top and shortest pair of shorts because who's going anywhere?
In lazy afternoons, they slow dance forehead to forehead from the kitchen past the archway into the lobby, ending in front of the living room couch. No music but their littering giggles, no spotlight but sun rays through big stained glass windows and half-draped curtains.
In lazy afternoons, they stoke the fire in the fireplace while deciding what dumb movie to watch. He wants documentaries, she wants romcom. The latter always wins, because in lazy afternoons, she doesn't want them to think. Only laugh, and feel, and be.
Lazy afternoons mean lazy kisses. Lots and lots of them.
Lazy afternoons also mean lazy snuggles. Centralized A/C on, blankets up, hunched together intimately on the couch, lazy snuggles combining with lazy kisses.
Sometimes even before the first scene of the chosen film rolls, he kisses her nape, and she calls him out, 'We're watching a movie, Shinichi,' but not really calling out when her dulcet tone means, 'continue, love, this is relaxing.'
She wants flimsy tops and short shorts in lazy afternoons because if not, it will be difficult, won't it?
For his hands to slip underneath, to hug her around the waist, to touch the inside of her thighs. All while the movie plays.
And she tries to face the flat screen TV, god she tries, but no, she wants to look over her shoulder to give him more kisses. Lazy kisses. Longer kisses. Sweeter kisses. Heated kisses. In fine, lazy, afternoons.
Her hand buries itself in his dark brown tresses, and half the movie the blanket is on the floor, her whole body facing him instead of the screen, legs locking his hips, thankful for her boyshorts because it's much more comfortable straddling him that way.
In lazy afternoons, movie dialogues are but white noise; the main script is the tender lamentation of each other's names. Their subdued whispers. Thick breaths and passionate kisses.
Sometimes lazy afternoons aren't lazy when they up the effort a notch, as when he pins her hands over his knees as they move in sync, her body angling up so he can tongue her nipples better. Over clothes, and under.
It isn't a lazy afternoon when she calls for him to move faster, because he does move faster, tongue faster, fondle faster, and his thin pants get soaked from the wet fabric of her shorts, and so she removes them and they're bare below, flesh to flesh. Flesh in flesh.
In afternoons like this, the answering machine echoes in the empty lobby, the two house owners unbothered by it or by any sound other than the rise and fall of her pitch and his sandpapery voice as he curses in her ear.
In afternoons like this, he takes his time, revering, worshipping, making love with his woman, because tomorrow is the start of another busy week and next Sunday is so far up ahead.
In afternoons like this, they release together, just in time for the rising action, or climax, or resolution, and since they are half an hour too late to figure out the plot of the film anyway, they have several options. Guess the plot, sleep in, or go for round two.
And most of the time, the option they choose, is the option that makes a lazy Sunday afternoon not so lazy after all.
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