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Did the baby kick and keep her awake?
Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.
My wife is always on my mind.
Our door is painted green, cheerful and bright. Sliding the key into the lock, I try to open it quietly.
“Darius?” a soft voice calls.
Damn. My heart sinks, but I let myself in properly and close the door behind me.
Our apartment is sunlit and cozy, with kitschy throws on the furniture and overflowing bookshelves. When I reach the living room, Lucy smiles at me from her favorite armchair, her feet propped on a footstool.
“Shit,” I say, crossing to her and handing her the croissants and take out coffee. “I knew I was too late to wake you.”
Her sweet laugh follows me into the kitchen as I fetch her a plate. “Oh yeah, shame on you, Darius. Bringing me breakfast like this every Sunday morning. What a jerk.”
The burning sensation in my chest fades as I go back to her, turning to something warm and gooey. If Lucy’s not disappointed, then it really is fine.
I’ll still do better next week. Treat her right. And in the meantime, I lift her feet off the footstool then sit there, settling her heels in my lap.
Lucy moans, eyelids fluttering as she chews her almond croissant. Maybe from the foot rub, maybe from the pastry. Perhaps both.
“Hippo feet,” she murmurs, crumbs dropping to her pajama shirt. There’s icing on her top lip.
“Perfectfeet.” I nibble her big toe to prove it and Lucy squeals, trying to wriggle away.
Not happening.
Lucy is the center of my world, and she’smine.
And I’ll spoil her for the rest of my days.
* * *
