The Perfect Morning

I imagine the perfect morning would go as such:

I wake up to the soft and hushed breathing of his warm face wishing me a good morning. There is a whole lot of beautiful sunshine in the room and I know that no one else is in the apartment because it is our apartment and our bedroom and my stuff and his stuff and our city and we are waking up in this really comfy bed we just spent the entire night having a lot of really mind-blowing sex in as a celebration of an amazing show I had just done. 

Anyway, he wakes me up with kisses on my face and I giggle and we snuggle under the comforter that is like a warm cloud engulfing our deliriously, sickeningly delicious love. I ask what we’ll be having for breakfast. We slept in a bit, but it’s not so late in the morning that I feel like I need to really bolt out of bed in preparation for the day, let’s say it’s like, 9:45. He says we ran out of eggs yesterday and the only thing we’ve got is that artesian coffee that he bought a few days ago and we hadn’t yet finished yet. I groan in a mock “Oh, so what do we do now?” when really I am not worried about any of that, not at all. I have to be at the show again later in the day, but otherwise: we have the whole day together. He has the weekends off and other than the improv show later, I can look forward to spending the entire morning and afternoon with him. 

He chuckles at my groan and makes to get up to make the coffee because he knows I love coffee in bed. I stop him with a “where do you think you’re going?” look that also says: “Let’s get some cardio going this morning so we can really make that coffee earned.”

We finally spill out of bed to begin our slow weekend morning. I go in to take a shower, a nice, warm, wake-you-up shower and when I step out of the bathroom of the artfully and practically decorated apartment that we call our own, I smell that warm coffee. I hear him in the kitchen talking to someone on the phone. 

When I’ve changed into something really cute I just bought from Banana Republic on sale a few days ago, and walk over to the kitchen, he has NPR on and is reading the news on his ipad. A steaming cup of coffee is waiting for me on our wooden table that my Mom gave me when we moved into the Brooklyn apartment we share. 

“Who were you talking to?” I ask as I sit down and sip at the deliciously warm caffein. 

He looks up from him iPad and smiles. “I just ordered us some breakfast from that diner you really love.” He says. 

“No! Ohhh! You are so sweet! Did you get the eggs and bacon special that I really like?”

“Of course.” He says, like it’s really not a big deal, but secretly he knows it is a super big deal. I love small thoughtful things like when someone remembers my favorite meal or when someone makes a decision for the two of us and makes an order for food so that we don’t have to venture out into what looks like a relatively chilly morning. 

I look out the window as I drink and ponder the tree that sweeps its branches in the wind and wonder where all the leaves that have fallen off go. The doorbell rings. I get up to answer, he stays reading and NPR’s playing something really fun like some folk music. He loves music, and I love music, so there is always some wonderful piece playing to make the silences of our relationship toe-tapping.

We’re both working professionals at what we do. He makes really good money working for some kind of nerdy, know-it-all job like an internet start-up company, or as a professor, or a researcher or a lecturer or an architect or engineer, something like that. I’m performing constantly on all sorts of improv teams, and working part time for Comedy Central. My agents are working on getting me a good deal with some producers about this great idea I have for a movie. I’m making good money, too. 

The delivery boy hands me our hot, delicious smelling breakfasts and I tip him really well. I can see him admiring our apartment as he looks past my shoulders at the warm reds, browns and greens that decorate everything. We have healthy plants in the window that get watered everyday by my Boyfriend who has watered them ever since he got them a few years ago. We’ve got beautiful picture frames of the two of us madly in love while posing in photos of the places we’ve travelled to together and photos of our families. Our cat is playing with a small toy on our big persian rug that I love to run my toes through so as to not feel too cold on November days like this. 

We eat breakfast in relative silence, except for an occasional comment on something in the news. I check my email on my up to date and well thought out laptop, like a MacBook Pro. He’s still in his boxers and a tee shirt and has bed head and thick plastic hipster glasses that I just melt when I see him in. I like to steal glances at him whenever I come to a break in reading about the recent developments about my life, like what my agent said to the producers and when I may need to be flown out to California. He doesn’t notice the looks at first, but after a couple times catches my eye as well and smiles. He mouths “I love you” and I blush. “I love you, too.” I say out loud and I hold my hand out across the table and he takes it. Life is great, and it’s only 11:30am.