Saturday Morning
by Trekker

Coffee in one hand, report in the other, glasses on, hair back, elbows propped on the kitchen table. Rush of air, hand on his shoulder, lips on his hair, scent of clean Jim. “Morning, sweetheart.” Endearments endured. Jim has love names even for his truck. Footsteps in the living room, rustle of papers, shuffled, stacked. Order from chaos. “Head kisses. Must have done something right.” A beat. Abandoned cleaning, strong embrace, strained ribs, trapped arms. Lips against his earrings. “Just love the hell outta you.” Eyes closed, head back. Hard shoulder under his skull, soft tongue touching his neck. Paradise.

The End
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