Easy like a Sunday Morning

‘Butter’ was the inspiration for this short, sensual piece.

The sun’s rays filter through the window and the light curtains move gently. The clock says 12 noon. I slowly lift my head off the pillow and take in the room.

The breakfast tray is tumbled at our feet. The golden slab of butter is now pooled in its porcelain dish, no longer holding the weight of the silver knife which has tipped and lies to one side, its blade oily and glinting.

Warm doughy croissant crumbs and a coffee stain on the duvet tell the story of a langorous breakfast hours earlier and our indifference to tidying it up before we fell into a fitful, sated doze.

A trail of clothes which begins at the bathroom door with my jeans and her blouse and which ends in a discarded heap of tangled underwear tells of the night’s activities which gave us our morning appetite.

I look over at my wife and see a languid smile spreading across her face. The sheet has imprinted itself on her cheek and her hair is mussed up, making a messy golden halo around her face.

I make the smallest move to reach for her.

Love is a crumpled bed on a Sunday morning.