Weekends are hard

Weekends are hard.

After a week of work I’d be glad for a couple of days off. At this time of year, it’s great to blame the weather and have a slow, lazy day doing little but eat and read and…hey, just be lazy! And if he’s relaxing by losing himself in something on his laptop that’s fine too…more time for me to do my ‘thing’.

But now? Mmm, a whole different scenario. Five days of listening to my own thoughts and kicking around the house alone I want company. I want his attention.

I know he’s tired and just relaxing. I know he’s still physically here in the house and I am glad of that. But I need more. I want conversation, and connection and to feel him close. I am suddenly needy. Subtle things ‘mean’ something important and my inner child starts to show off. I pout, and huff and pull a face. I am being immature in a distinctly unfunny sort of way.

He looks hurt.

I feel guilty.

We hug.

And go to the cinema. To sit in the dark. In silence.