Writer's Block: Good Days and Bad Days
Name: Treasure
Fandom: None; original
Rating: T
Word Count: 546
Notes: A woman muses on the moods of her lover.
Saturdays, you love me. The sunlight peeks in through the curtains, voyeuristic, as we make love, and you smile at me and kiss me - hands, lips, stomach, thighs. Later we'll go out somewhere - anywhere - and hold hands, giggling when people think we're sisters or best friends. Funny how they can't tell until we kiss - and we do.
Sundays aren't as glorious. With the knowledge that tomorrow is Monday, you're tired and reluctant; far from trying to make the most of the last day of your weekend, you sit in your pyjamas all day and watch ridiculous TV shows about arguing families, lovers and friends. You absorb the confrontation; it seeps through your skin into your bloodstream, and when I kiss you goodnight, you're irritable.
You tell me you won't make love on a Sunday, but you're not religious, angel as you are.
On Monday, you're despondent. Another week; another fucking week in that office and you hate it; I know you do, and your manager, too, who thinks it's funny to suggest that you invite him back for dinner to 'let him watch'. You don't. You don't, and you come home, defiant, to deny me. You won't be the woman he thinks you are. You've never told your parents you're gay. Have you ever come to terms with it?
Tuesdays are better; Tuesday is one day closer to Friday than Monday ever will be, and you'll kiss my shoulder as you wake up without realising I'm already awake and waiting for your affection; we'll smile and make breakfast together, and I'll be able to kiss you goodbye and watch you smile properly instead of pretending, eyes cast away. Maybe I'll make your dinner for when you come home, and maybe you'll thank me.
Wednesday is mid-week, and when you come home you're not miserable, even though you're as exhausted as you always are. Wednesdays we meet up with Emma and Stacey, and you like to dress up. Most of the time you're in a good enough mood to let me watch you, and I do. You're no less beautiful without your mascara on than with it, but I can't take my eyes off you as you put it on. It's odd, but you're used to me. You'll turn and smile.
One day later and we're nearly at the end of the week. Thursday is the day you have dinner with your clients and it always makes me jealous to see you come home slightly tipsy, but you're lovely all the same. I'm never so thoroughly kissed as I am when you're slightly inebriated; makes me want to fill you with Vodka sometimes, but you've always been less-is-more about affection; when you're sober, at least.
Fridays are beautiful; golden. On Fridays you come home relieved to have managed another five days at the office without strangling your boss, and you fiddle with the symbol of our love around your finger as you recall the more stressful events of the day to me. Then there's dinner, and then there's TV as we cuddle up on the sofa. It feels like you love me again. You sleep with me rather than by me.
My week is full of you, and every day is a treasure.
Fandom: None; original
Rating: T
Word Count: 546
Notes: A woman muses on the moods of her lover.
Saturdays, you love me. The sunlight peeks in through the curtains, voyeuristic, as we make love, and you smile at me and kiss me - hands, lips, stomach, thighs. Later we'll go out somewhere - anywhere - and hold hands, giggling when people think we're sisters or best friends. Funny how they can't tell until we kiss - and we do.
Sundays aren't as glorious. With the knowledge that tomorrow is Monday, you're tired and reluctant; far from trying to make the most of the last day of your weekend, you sit in your pyjamas all day and watch ridiculous TV shows about arguing families, lovers and friends. You absorb the confrontation; it seeps through your skin into your bloodstream, and when I kiss you goodnight, you're irritable.
You tell me you won't make love on a Sunday, but you're not religious, angel as you are.
On Monday, you're despondent. Another week; another fucking week in that office and you hate it; I know you do, and your manager, too, who thinks it's funny to suggest that you invite him back for dinner to 'let him watch'. You don't. You don't, and you come home, defiant, to deny me. You won't be the woman he thinks you are. You've never told your parents you're gay. Have you ever come to terms with it?
Tuesdays are better; Tuesday is one day closer to Friday than Monday ever will be, and you'll kiss my shoulder as you wake up without realising I'm already awake and waiting for your affection; we'll smile and make breakfast together, and I'll be able to kiss you goodbye and watch you smile properly instead of pretending, eyes cast away. Maybe I'll make your dinner for when you come home, and maybe you'll thank me.
Wednesday is mid-week, and when you come home you're not miserable, even though you're as exhausted as you always are. Wednesdays we meet up with Emma and Stacey, and you like to dress up. Most of the time you're in a good enough mood to let me watch you, and I do. You're no less beautiful without your mascara on than with it, but I can't take my eyes off you as you put it on. It's odd, but you're used to me. You'll turn and smile.
One day later and we're nearly at the end of the week. Thursday is the day you have dinner with your clients and it always makes me jealous to see you come home slightly tipsy, but you're lovely all the same. I'm never so thoroughly kissed as I am when you're slightly inebriated; makes me want to fill you with Vodka sometimes, but you've always been less-is-more about affection; when you're sober, at least.
Fridays are beautiful; golden. On Fridays you come home relieved to have managed another five days at the office without strangling your boss, and you fiddle with the symbol of our love around your finger as you recall the more stressful events of the day to me. Then there's dinner, and then there's TV as we cuddle up on the sofa. It feels like you love me again. You sleep with me rather than by me.
My week is full of you, and every day is a treasure.