Two Perfect Days

A perfect weekend feels like a breath of fresh air, where time slows down. Saturday is for connection, and Sunday is for reflection.

Saturday begins in silk.

Sunlight slips through gauzy curtains, soft and golden on our skin. We’re wrapped in Egyptian cotton, tangled together. His breath at my neck. His hand resting at my waist. Our bodies move slowly, then all at once—until we’re breathless and laughing.

Later, he heads out to a cafe while I stay nestled under the warm covers. He brings back a decaf cappuccino with almond milk, half-sweet. Perfect. I sip while the world stirs beyond our windows, but in here, everything is hushed and still.

We wander through the city like lovers in a dream. Lunch at our favorite spot. Hands brushing, then holding, as we stroll past shop windows and street musicians. Maybe there’s a festival. Maybe not. The best days never need much.

Back home, we cook together. He sears the meat, seasoning with flair, while I slice, stir, and plate the dessert. We open a bottle of red wine and light a candle. The food is beautiful, but it’s the rhythm between us that tastes like magic.

At night, a movie plays in the background. We don’t finish it. He carries me to bed, lights my favorite Christian Dior candle, and turns on the playlist that always pulls us closer. We make love, hot and hard. Then we read, skin to skin, until sleep takes us.

Sunday is mine.

He’s still here somewhere, quiet in another room. The morning belongs to me. I stretch beneath the same soft sheets, then pad to the kitchen for an organic matcha latte. Butterfly Peaflower chia pudding waits in the fridge, already topped with berries.

I kick my feet up on the teal velvet couch, the light hitting the orange wall just right. Piano music floats from the speakers. I eat slowly, sip slowly, think about nothing at all.

Later, I wander through the park with sun on my shoulders, dogs chasing balls, and wind in the trees. I stop by Whole Foods to pick the ripest fruit and run my hands over the flowers until one smells like mine.

Back home, I trim the stems and let the fragrance fill the room. Then I paint, coconut water in hand. The afternoon dissolves into color and sound. I lose myself on the canvas, then write a story to remember it by.

Dinner is my own invention—a plate of flavors that belong in an art gallery. I cook in lingerie, with olive oil on my fingers and a little jazz in the air. Then I slip into the bath, the scent of lavender rising with the steam. I breathe.

As the day winds down, I slip into bed, my body relaxed, my spirit full.

This is my perfect weekend.

One day wrapped in love.

One day completely my own.