this weekend, they daydreamed. and they slept very, very late. she spoke to him in french, some phrases romantic, some phrases nonsensical, to familiarize him with the intonations. they cleaned the home and tumbled the laundry; she loves that sensation of freshness on her pillowcases. there were many hours at home, many hours of nothing, and they basked in it. they had very little in the kitchen, but eggs and bread. yet they refrained from going to the shops, so that they might spend more time being, more time lounging. he made her french toast, studded with chives and sprinkled with the last of the asiago. he made her salmon with herbs, spread onto buttery toast, with ricotta and wildflower honey. he grilled fried eggs, spinach, tomatoes and french mustard between thick slices of italian bread. she loves the way he cooks for her at the weekends. she polished her nails with a sheer, soft nude. he watched an independent french film, his favorite weekend pastime. they shopped for pretty, lacy underthings for her. they visited a local coffee roaster, a few blocks from their home, with balanced and smooth espresso blends. west coast heart, italian soul. she ordered a decaf breve latte, he sipped a breve cappuccino, brewed with conca d'oro espresso, with cocoa and vanilla aromas. simplicity is the ultimate sophistication. they constantly remark to one another how much they love this life.
