Monday

He mumbles and my mind wanders from his lips and gets lost.
Monday.
Again.

Again and again.
I feel a little like I've been run over by a mack truck.

His lips are still moving. His eyes catch my attention. Nice eyes.

I am thinking about all there is to do this week and the 8 million ways to avoid doing any of it. Right now for example I am supposed to be listening to the words pushing past his lips and not day dreaming about what he might look like with out that beard.

Funny looking. Naked. Awkward.

The beard suits him.