What I love about Sundays

12:30 p.m.

I have cleared the table of all the dirty dishes, junk mail and sticky placemats. I have wiped down the surface with cleaner so the table is a brilliant white once again. I have paused to reflect on the lovely craftmanship of the table, a birthday gift from T last year, and of the lazy susan that sits in the middle, constructed by my dad as a wedding gift and cake stand last summer. I walked the dog to the market and bought milk.

The coffee machine beeps just in time. I pour my cup of piping hot Breakfast Blend, leaving enough room for the milk that will lighten my coffee from black to caramel. Add a teaspoon of Splenda. Pour myself a bowl of Post Raisin Bran. Plug in the computer so it sits on the lazy susan. Pull up the Washington Post. I bring my bowl and mug to the table.

My phone buzzes. A text message from T. "Good morning. What is your shoe size, my dear." I smile. "7.5, handsome. And good morning to you too."

The only sound is the faint whoosh of the air conditioner. I have no place to be, and second cup of coffee waiting for me in the carafe. I can't think of a better way to spend a Sunday. I don't even try.