I Want To See You On Sunday

I want to go out with you on Saturday night and close one bar, then another, then another, until we’re drinking cheap domestic beer from the bottle and dancing to 90s music we know all the words to. I want to see you in the red light of the hallway by the bathroom, in the stringed-up lights of the patio where everyone is smoking, in the soft lights they put on the tables in the back booths. I want to kiss you on a leather sofa in full view of strangers, and sit on your lap, and tell you that I don’t usually get this drunk.

I want to walk home with you, even though we should take a cab, even though it’s just a little too cold to not be wearing a jacket. I want to sing and stop to talk on the sidewalk and realize every 20 minutes or so that we still haven’t gotten back to the apartment. When you walk ahead of me, I want to run up behind you and mess up your hair and kiss your neck and tell you how much fun I had, even while I’m still having it. I want one of those Saturday nights that never quite feels like it ends, because it’s always waiting to continue just one week later.

But then I want to see you on Sunday. I want to wake up early because we forgot to draw the curtains, feel the sun spill over my face and my body and not feel the need to cover myself up. I want to turn to you and see you still sleeping, your chest going up and down, up and down. Everything I do will be quiet and small, because I don’t want to wake you, because I know you’ll have a headache when you do. But you will wake up. You will turn to me and say “How long have I been asleep?” and I will already have a glass of ice water and some aspirin.

I want to recover over runny eggs and bacon and big stacks of pancakes. We’ll sit in the corner booth, just like we did at the bar, but this time we’ll be drinking coffee and talking about how much fun we had. (Isn’t there always something just as good in remembering the fun as there is in actually having it?) I want you to eat so much that your body has no more room for a headache, and all you want to do is sit down and do nothing.

And most of all, I want to do nothing with you. I want to spend a Sunday at home, me in my corner, you in yours, reading or working or writing, silently in our spaces. I want to be so together that we don’t have to say anything at all, that we can just watch it rain and drink our tea and occasionally look at one another and smile. I will wonder why I ever thought that Sunday was for running errands and cleaning and getting things done one after the other, when it is so clear that spending them silently across from you is so much better.

I want to have every bit of Sunday with you, every Sunday, because you are simply too good to end on a Saturday night. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

About the author

Chelsea Fagan

Chelsea Fagan founded the blog The Financial Diet. She is on Twitter.

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