routines
I meant to post this a while ago, but never got around to it. So, here, this is a piece of our lives, me and the Awesome Husband:
We have routines. This is one:
The Husband always calls me when he’s leaving work for the day. I’m almost always home first, one of the benefits of academia, so this gives me about half an hour to finish whatever I’m doing-grading this essay, writing this paragraph, reading this article-or at least get to a pausing point.
When he comes home, I don’t get up from the sofa or the kitchen table or wherever I am right away; he smiles at me, but he likes to take the various accessories out of his pockets first, and he sets them down neatly, tidily, methodically, on the end-table by the door. Also, the cat generally wants attention. He’s a very needy cat.
After that, though, I get up, and come over to him-the Husband, not the cat-and he puts both arms around me in a hug. He says sometimes that he can tell what kind of day I’m having by the way I hug him; I suspect that’s probably true. He’s often warm, from the drive, from sunshine streaming into the car; I like the scent of him, the sun-hot clothing, the curl of his hair when it gets a bit too long.
Eventually we wander over to the sofa, and he sits down and starts poking at his laptop, catching up on events one-handed, while his other arm goes around me. I put my head on his shoulder, or his chest, or on bad days or if I’m just feeling like I want to, in his lap, and he plays with my hair, and we talk, idly, about our days, about my students, about his work projects, about dinner ideas, about weekend plans and whether my mother wants to make an appointment for me with her hair stylist again.
Sometimes this turns into sex, what with the cuddling and stray hands finding interesting places and all. Most times not-that’s later-but sometimes, yes. Sometimes he brings me home a caramel ribbon crunch coffee, which he did yesterday, so we drink it together. If we’re in the right positions and it won’t be awkward, he puts a hand over my wrist, or a foot atop mine on the floor, holding me safely down.
And after a while we get up and go accomplish whatever it is we’ve decided on for dinner, and play with the cat, and watch a television show or pull out a tabletop game or get back to grading or simply read, quietly, shoulders leaning against each other.
And that’s the routine, on an ordinary day.
Just felt like sharing, really. Because I’m happy.
(Forget the dissertation; I shall write my memoirs into a best-selling work of literature! Me coping with graduate school, reading medieval romance, handling depression and self-harm, falling in love, negotiating a D/s dynamic in daily life, writing, trying to be a good friend! There may be porn. There will certainly be an Evil Demon Cat and an Awesome Husband. And probably some Tolkien jokes, too.)
We have routines. This is one:
The Husband always calls me when he’s leaving work for the day. I’m almost always home first, one of the benefits of academia, so this gives me about half an hour to finish whatever I’m doing-grading this essay, writing this paragraph, reading this article-or at least get to a pausing point.
When he comes home, I don’t get up from the sofa or the kitchen table or wherever I am right away; he smiles at me, but he likes to take the various accessories out of his pockets first, and he sets them down neatly, tidily, methodically, on the end-table by the door. Also, the cat generally wants attention. He’s a very needy cat.
After that, though, I get up, and come over to him-the Husband, not the cat-and he puts both arms around me in a hug. He says sometimes that he can tell what kind of day I’m having by the way I hug him; I suspect that’s probably true. He’s often warm, from the drive, from sunshine streaming into the car; I like the scent of him, the sun-hot clothing, the curl of his hair when it gets a bit too long.
Eventually we wander over to the sofa, and he sits down and starts poking at his laptop, catching up on events one-handed, while his other arm goes around me. I put my head on his shoulder, or his chest, or on bad days or if I’m just feeling like I want to, in his lap, and he plays with my hair, and we talk, idly, about our days, about my students, about his work projects, about dinner ideas, about weekend plans and whether my mother wants to make an appointment for me with her hair stylist again.
Sometimes this turns into sex, what with the cuddling and stray hands finding interesting places and all. Most times not-that’s later-but sometimes, yes. Sometimes he brings me home a caramel ribbon crunch coffee, which he did yesterday, so we drink it together. If we’re in the right positions and it won’t be awkward, he puts a hand over my wrist, or a foot atop mine on the floor, holding me safely down.
And after a while we get up and go accomplish whatever it is we’ve decided on for dinner, and play with the cat, and watch a television show or pull out a tabletop game or get back to grading or simply read, quietly, shoulders leaning against each other.
And that’s the routine, on an ordinary day.
Just felt like sharing, really. Because I’m happy.
(Forget the dissertation; I shall write my memoirs into a best-selling work of literature! Me coping with graduate school, reading medieval romance, handling depression and self-harm, falling in love, negotiating a D/s dynamic in daily life, writing, trying to be a good friend! There may be porn. There will certainly be an Evil Demon Cat and an Awesome Husband. And probably some Tolkien jokes, too.)