I love sleeping in on the weekends, sleeping in on Sunday, after sleeping in on Saturday, and drinking glassfulls of wine throughout the day, while cooking dinner, and during dinner, long into the night, until I’m laying satisfied on the couch, glass in hand, book in the other, reading until the words on the page seem to tumble right out of the book, and I can barely see straight, and everything is fuzzy, but there’s a warm glow that fills the hazy drunkenness with euphoria, and the ends of my mouth curl in a pleasing smile as I slowly doze off, only to wake several hours later with the lights on, empty glass balancing precariously in hand, book open on my chest in the other, and I shuffle around to shut the lights while undressing on my way to the bedroom where my girlfriend sleeps, hearing her half conscious cooing in the dark as I slip under the covers, and waking at noon the next day with the weight of the night still gripping my eyelids, lips stained red, but feeling refreshed from the twelve hours of sleep.
I love waking up on Monday morning with these twelve hours charging me, rising at 5am to begin the work week, to prepare for the day.
And having the stamina to work all day without fatigue, because of that long luxurious weekend of rest.
William Dare 