Sunday Evening

He had never thought about it much before, but sitting in the garden, drinking gin and tonics with her made him feel a little bit sad.

It was warm and sunny, about 7pm, so the light was really nice. Those annoying little bug things were flying about in the evening haze, telling you it was summer.

He was really tired, to tell you the truth, but it was so simple to sit in that easy silence with her that he didn't bother to mention it.

The debris of a day in the sun lay about them, a newpaper, blanket and plate warzone. Tiny cigarette butt soldiers storming the borders.

These are the moments when you're supposed to feel most at peace, idling away the few remaining moments of the weekend, but he felt rather maudlin. He knew the next logical thing to do was tidy away the crap, have a shower and watch Sunday telly in bed. Obligatory lazy sex could be in order, which, whilst not entirely unappealing, would require an enthusiasm and communication he wasnt sure he could muster.

Having a shower would wash off the little green bugs squished on his skin, and the smell of the wood torches, the aura of the day. Knowing that sitting there with her was a finite pleasure, a short spell before the cacophonic sounds of everything else came back in to his audio focus was almost too much to bear. He felt pretty fucking sad about it.

Disrupting that peacefully mournful silence, she said 'shall we go inside?'.

So, seemingly without moving his lips, he said 'yeah, go on then. I could do with a shower'.