. . . il n'est jamais trop tard pour être ce que tu veux être. saturday was a perfect day, when everything aligns and they feel exactly as they always dream of feeling. she woke early to the morning light kissing the silk, striped drapes. she woke him, he stirred. good morning. she prepared a decadent weekend breakfast, wearing the sensually soft black nightdress that makes her feel beautiful. he steeped rooibos and they brought their meal to the table, basking in the springtime sun. they carried a lively conversation from the table to the hot shower. he rinsed her hair and massaged orchid scented conditioner into her dark, wet locks. chocolate brown towels. they dressed. he wore a skinny tie with skinny jeans. she pulled on tights, two toned flats, a soft caridgan-dress and draped pink baubles around her neck. the collision of elegance and comfort. they left for the eastern part of the city -- a little grittier, a little artier. they ended up in a quiet residential area of east vancouver, wandering between houses, discussing where they'd like to live one day, and when to have their babies. they picked up green glass bottles of sparkling spring water and showed their tickets at the cultural centre for the matinee performance of 1984. they sank into plush seats, sipped perrier. they were amazed by production and choreography and story. the boundaries of west coast theatre were pushed, thoughts were provoked. she whispered to him, that she couldn't imagine a better place to be on a saturday: sipping sparkling water, feeling gorgeous, watching theatre with her love at a cultural centre. a life of art and luxury. after the play, they walked commercial drive, discussed the theatrical merits and stopped for lunch in little italy. she pulled him into vintage shops where they sorted through silk scarves and where she fell in love with a vintage black tutu. they stopped for a coffee from one his favourite local roasters. as they waited for the espresso to brew, he held her close and asked softly, can i get you anything, darling? she felt such tenderness in his words and in his touch. they walked all the way home together, one hour from the east side to the city centre, while the sun set. they tangled their arms together around their backs, he offered her sips of his latte, they shared their hearts, they admired the cherry blossoms. this is what love is, she felt. that he loves her and holds her and shares with her and listens to her. his attention was lavished upon her and she felt its sweetness. this is to be loved. she wished that every heart in the world might feel that. when they returned home, he spontaneously photographed her, seeing her beauty through the lens. he loves her. he turned on opera, warmed her feet, and took her to bed in the early evening to play and rest. as the sunlight faded, the flickering candles became more prominent, filling the room with their light and the scent of ripe figs on trees. still with the mid-century opera playing, they cooked, they dined. they simply lived a slow evening together, in each other's arms, in dim light. sunday was met with as much beauty. they explored fourth avenue, with its organic markets and loose leaf teas and imported french candles and tulips wrapped in brown paper. a quiet sunday, drinking in all the perfection of the life and love that they share together. they baked ginger scones and brewed sweet black cardamom tea and invited his parents to share. his parents shared with her stories from his childhood in africa; from days spent playing on the beaches of the namibian desert. her heart swells for that little boy with his pail and wellies and freckled skin.
