Perfect Day

I have no idea what this is! But the writing is done for the day!

The Perfect Day

It had been a perfect day.

They had risen in the late morning, the sun already high, blasting the side of the cottage with light and heat and the glorious promise of a lazy Sunday afternoon. One of those days that you know will deliver. One of those days that you remember years later, a memory to treasure.

She'd woken and smiled at him. He brushed strands of hair from her eyes and she'd laughed. She said her hair needed brushing, he thought it was perfect how it was, all tousled and sexy.

The room still had that lingering aroma of love, that heady mix of arousal and massage oil.

When she got out of the bed he watched her, appreciated her long, lithe legs and the way the sun shone through his white shirt, outlining the curves of her breasts.

They breakfasted on toast, flicking the crumbs from the bedsheets, their coffee cups cradled precariously on the duvet. The coffee stains never came out. Printed as indelibly on the duvet cover as the day was on his memory.

He said they should go out somewhere. He didn't care where, particularly, just somewhere. She agreed. They had a brief discussion on possible locations, whether to take the car, whether to ride there instead. Eventually they decided to walk.

The canal was busy, full of people with small children dawdling too close to the edge, dogs that raced and sometimes jumped in the water, bike riders flying past with barely a thank you. They strolled, hand in hand. People smiled at them. The couple smiled back. They laughed a lot. Shared jokes, rambling conversation with no beginning, no end, no actual point. Just sharing the day and the sunshine.

They ate ice-cream served from a hatch on a narrowboat. Multi-hued ice-cream that dripped down their hands and soggied the cones. She licked the creamy rivulet from her wrist, held out her cone for him to try it. He pulled her into an embrace, kissed the excess from her lips.

Later on they found a shady spot beneath some trees. Sitting on the grass, her in his arms, they watched the world go by. She talked about her plans for the coming year. He listened without listening, gazing down at the twin mounds of her breasts. He did not want to hear her plans. He wanted this day to last forever.

She said she was developing sunburn and held out her arms to prove it. He ran a hand over her creamy skin, there was no hint of redness, they were barely pink. He asked if she wanted to head back and she nodded.

They didn't go back. Instead they found themselves in a waterside restaurant and dined out on rather expensive fish and chips, washing it down with chilled white wine. Outside the sun dimmed a little, the air cooled from uncomfortably warm to a lovely ambient temperature. He toasted her health and she tipped her glass, the rims touching briefly.

Darkness crept in and the day's warmth disappated into a tolerable chill. They walked back along the canal, his arm around her shoulders, her face pressed into his chest. Holding her as they walked, it felt right.

Back at the cottage, she opened a bottle of wine. Threw her clothes on the floor. He smiled, pulled his teeshirt over his head, joined her on the floor. Joined with her. And afterwards as they lay, still panting. He told her that he loved her.

She said she knew that. She'd always known it. She always would.

He lit the fire, despite the season. They sat and, wrapped together in a large blanket gazed into the flames. He felt himself melt into her, wanted to imprint her on his skin, so that she would always be a part of him. He knew it was ending. Knew these were their final hours together.

All things must end, night had fallen and fatigue overcame them. They doused the fire and went to bed. Both exhausted, neither able to sleep. They made love again, but the passion was fading. There was no promise of better yet to come, just the knowledge of time slipping by. All their first were over, now all they had left was finals.

In the morning they dressed in silence. He walked her to the door of the cottage. He offered to take her to the station, but she shook her head. She put the case down on the floor and put her arms around him, rested her head against his lips, his tear-streaked cheeks.

And then she left.