They seldom wore shoes on Sundays...

Most Sundays they spent a good portion of the day in bed. He read the paper. She told him about her upcoming week, taking a cat nap after her plans for Wednesday and waking up later to tell him about the weekend. Around 1 o’clock they made brunch—a colorful plate of strawberries and blueberries beside a stack of pancakes. She curled up on one end of the couch, her legs and feet covered with a blanket. He sat next to her, his legs sprawled out in front. They looked forward to these lazy Sundays all week—sometimes spent laughing at whatever movie he had in his queue, sometimes spent holding one another hovering the thin line between pillow talk and half-conscious murmurings as they slipped into a light sleep. As daylight turned to dusk, their stomachs reminded them of the hour and, for the first time that day, they put on shoes and walked three blocks to the corner café where they took a seat at their typical outdoor table and ordered the exact same thing they had ordered every Sunday night for the last eight months.