Super Abbreviated Last Perfect Sunday

0600 - we get out of bed.  We must separate because your head is on my chest, your arm across it.  We shower together to save water and to indulge ourselves.  In our clean lay about clothes we do our morning chores:  I take care of the babies and you make breakfast, simple, no cooking.  Bowls of cereal, toast, coffee.  Then we dress in our Sunday best:  you in a dress, me in a button-down and trousers.  We worship at church for an hour.  Back home we vacuum, mop, basic household chores, dig?  By the time we’re done it’s time for the first football game.  I lounge in jeans, shirtless.  You relax in shorts and a t-shirt, bra-less.  Well, why not?  We’re both on the couch and we both have the books we’re reading on the side tables, to read during commercial breaks, during halftime.  You stretch out, put your feet in my lap.  I rub them while I read.  The game’s back on.  You don’t know shit about football.  I don’t give a shit.  I watch and rub and read in between.  The furry baby is restless.  You relax him.  I go out for a smoke.  You stay in for a vape toke.  We mildly argue.  Game over.  Our team has won.    You make dinner while I take care of our cars, the yard, we both know and perform our roles.  

    Then I deploy.

    Suddenly I’m a selfish sonofabitch.

    And you’re just a bitch.