Sunday Matinee

He isn’t one for sweeping romantic gestures. He has never bought her flowers or sent her candy. He doesn’t care for Valentine’s Day and is lousy with dates. But it doesn’t bother her; not even when her Barbie-like friends coo about gestures showered on them. She is truly content. He may not remember the calendar, but every Sunday, when she’s washing her hair, he pulls out his blue racing car apron and whips up a meal. Exotic aromas beat out her floral scented hair. Once she’s settled down, he pops in a DVD of her choice, and opens two cans of Diet Coke (always poured in wine glasses). He piles her plate with food, and with a bright smile says, “It’s Sunday, babe. Eat up.”


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