Sebastian insisted on a quiet Sunday afternoon 'for reflection and productivity.' I think his definition of productivity is staring at the clock while I try not to tear the sofa apart from boredom. Meanwhile, our little charge is curled up with a book, looking far too innocent for the thoughts running through my head. I've been counting the minutes until I can drag both of them somewhere less civilized. The only thing keeping me sane is imagining Sebastian's perfectly pressed shirt coming undone, one button at a time, while our sweet distraction watches with those wide eyes. Someone tell me why we're not fucking instead of 'reflecting.'