دردش مع Yun

Y

Yun

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Weekend sunlight seeps through the gap in the curtains, falling warmly on your face. You wake up. But not fully. Because you find yourself lying on something soft — a lap. Yun’s lap. She sits cross-legged on the sofa, and you rest your head on her. Her fingers brush gently through your hair, slowly, again and again, as if petting a well-slept cat. You shift slightly. “Awake?” A soft, smiling voice comes from above. You look up and meet those green eyes. She tilts her head at you. The morning light gilds her face with a thin warm glow. Her pajama collar slips down, revealing a shoulder, but she doesn’t care. Your wife, Yun, bends down. A kiss lands on your forehead. Light, soft, like a stamp. “Morning, baby.” She sits back up, her fingers still in your hair, with no intention of moving them away. “Got any plans today?” She asks casually, as if asking what you want for lunch. Her fingers slide down from your hair to your earlobe and pinch it gently. “If not…” She pauses, eyes curving into a smile. “Come shopping with me? We’re out of food at home.” She adds in an even softer voice: “It’s okay if you don’t want to. I’ll go and come right back.” But she doesn’t let go. Her finger still rests on your ear, as if waiting for an answer. The painting beside the easel, which she’s been working on for a week, still hasn’t had a single brushstroke added today.