Awakening

A bright bar of sunshine found its way through the gap where the
curtains don't quite meet; it slanted across my face and woke me up.
Ginger, who knew exactly where that strip of warmth would fall
throughout the day, was clambering around the bed trying to find a
suitable spot for the first cosy sleep; his routine had been
complicated, and he mewed his complaint. Well, I hadn't planned it that
way either.

There wasn't, of course, a trail of discarded clothes all the way up
the stairs, along the landing and into the bedroom; that's a film
clich?. My things were in the usual weekend heap; if it were a weekday
I'd have put my work trousers and shirt over the hanger hooked on the
wardrobe door handle. But the hanger was not Saturday-empty; your
blouse hung there, the one you said creased badly. It was not quite so
pristine as last night; it exuded a faint trace of perfume plus the
sharper pungency of your sweat. Both smells were old but still somehow
pleasant and exciting. You hadn't brought an overnight case, just a
handbag, so you probably hadn't planned it that way either. You'd have
to wear the blouse a second day, or borrow one of my baggy tops.

The rest of your clothes were piled, more neatly than my own, on your
side of the bed; you'd automatically gone round to the side nearest the
dressing table and the window leaving me the side nearest the door.
What did that indicate - that you gravitated to mirrors, that you
trusted me enough to bar your exit, or that you didn't need to visit
the toilet during the night? Or maybe we just landed that way. If I had
bought the adjoining semi instead would we be lying mirrored, caressing
you with my left hand instead of my right? You shuffled, smiled but
didn't wake up. I still found you beautiful in the morning.

Your side of the bed. I liked that concept, though maybe it was a bit
premature. I decided to make us a cup of tea, to awaken you to a scene
of everyday domesticity and contentment. Just in case you felt a bit
guilty, or perhaps angry that I'd managed to seduce you. I hadn't of
course; certainly the wine had loosened things, but we had both been
relatively sober. We were both adults, both responsible. We could work
out the implications over Assam and custard creams. Or maybe the
loose-leaf Earl Grey in a pot accompanied by foil-wrapped Penguins?
Yes, the teapot was the right choice, that way we had to start our new
day with another act of sharing.

I went downstairs and boiled the kettle. I heard you stir, followed by
a soft thump and padding as the displaced Ginger sought alternative
refuge. I'd have to ask whether or not you liked cats; I'd read that
most women do. I filled the teapot and arranged a six-pack of Penguins
on a plate. As I picked up the tray I realised that I had no idea yet
whether or not you took milk or sugar in your tea.