coffeelove

Some mornings there would be music. Other mornings just silence or the sound of a car passing by.
Perhaps the radio or the buzzing of bees.
But I would always wake up in the same manner.
Realizing I am no longer asleep, recognizing the bed under me and opening my eyes to stare up at a blue sky.
My pillow warmed up by the sun, all night, all day, every morning. I could rest my cheek on it and feel warmth return to my body. And to yawn, stretch, curl up, snooze, repeat it all over again. Mostly I would just yawn and stretch, happily lay in that bed in the corner of a naked living room. After an hour I would get up and open the door to let in fresh air, summer, friends, foes.
Then make coffee and return to the bed, resting my back against a white wall.
It was so perfect. It was just the bed in the corner, under the big window. That is all that was important. Pictures just laid out on the floor. The table wasn't a real table. A cardboard box turned upside down.

Some mornings he would lay his belt over my back. Nuzzle into my neck, his lips down my spine.
Did I enjoy that? Yes, yes I did.
The snapping of the belt and his hand holding me down.
"Good.. try to remember that", he said.