The perfect Sunday was not to think of Monday. Monday was inevitable. Why not enjoy what you had? She let him cook and pour the wine. She let the good feeling wash down inside of her. On such a day she would have given him anything he wanted. But he never asked. And without being blatant, without being brash, she would never state the obvious. She knew the Monday morning fuck was just an expression of his anxiety. Driving to work she would feel empty as if he had never really been insid her. So let Sunday be quiet, serene, perfect. Forget Monday.