ON MONDAYS

Mondays are for them. All the other days, they serve the world. But Mondays are sacred, set apart that they may do as
they please.

So today they debate over coffee in a shop hours from town. Not because someone they know might see them, but so that
they won't see someone they know.

Her elbows are propped on the table, her palms clasped in a prayerful tent and resting on her right cheek. She leans
forward, listening intently: long as he speaksno, long as he is with her, he enthralls her.

He is talking animatedly, his words punctuated by gestures. Then he inches closer, eager to reach the crux of his
argument. As though to emphasize his point, he reaches out to her.

She holds her breath in anticipation, and in the silence she hears her heart sing.

He pauses, his hand frozen in hesitation but his eyes kindled with longing. And then gently, tenderly, his fingers dance
over hers: circling her wrist, mapping skin and flesh, exploring every curve and crevice. She tilts her head in acquiescence
and sighs. His thumb brushes her face, fluttering over her lashes and tracing her lips.

He pulls away from the kiss. Still, the music lingers in their gaze.

The heart they share endures everyday, but the world is rife with rules in his and responsibilities in hers.

Happily, Mondays are for them. On Mondays, they have time.

So on Mondays, they love.