Monday

He hated Mondays. Especially the mornings.

He snuggled deeper into the blankets, stealing a few more drops of slumber before the stealthy sun woke him up fully.

He hated waking up. It was disturbingly similar to taking a relationship beyond being just friends to lovers.There was no going back. He always fell in love. And he always woke up.

He came to with an abrupt start. He could never tell the exact moment he woke up everyday - it was gradually abrupt. Like falling in love was.

His eyelids played with him, refusing to open; his tongue was thick with the taste of yesterday. He rubbed his eyes awake and stretched out, carefully disentangling himself from the mess that his bed was. No sooner had he got up than the cold hit him like a sudden truth. He looked back longingly at his bed, no more a mess to his eyes, but then breathed a sad sigh and got to his feet - the day beckoned.

He surveyed the reality of his room - the stillness in the air; the hazy light that somehow filtered in; the coffee cups with the guilty brown stains lining the white of the china; the muted static on the T.V. ; the clothes strewn all over the few furniture that were there; the smells of the night; the slippers lying lazily at disparate corners...Shivering, he went to the window and violently threw the curtains aside. Sunlight leapt into his eyes and into the room - like a child let loose in a playground - leaving silent shadows in its sunny wake. He welcomed the warmth as he felt it shroud his body in an easy embrace. He was now awake, truly.

And then he saw the cover lying on the table - inconspicuous initially, then incongruous, then intriguing, then inviting; its lavender out of place against the spartan black of the table. He picked it up slowly, as though any hurry would alter the contents of what was inside. He flipped open the envelope, and slid the letter out sensuously into the flat of his palm. It had just the one line on it: "Just didn't have the heart to wake you up" - written in that large, slender, fluid hand of hers.

The corners of his mouth curled down in a smile as the events of yesterday washed over him, and he swore pleasurably.

He hated Mondays. Especially the mornings.