9 AM was for tangled limbs. Carved in solid gold, the morning scene was always one of peace and quiet, his steady breathing almost lulling you back to sleep. Almost. Until his internal alarm clock woke him up, and you encountered the most beautiful set of honey brown eyes they’ve ever seen. So really, as much as you wanted to go back to sleep, the perks of keeping your eyes open were too good to miss. He always complained about the time and nudged his head into the crook of your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly and claiming he never wanted to let go. You never objected, offering him your lips and always getting soft kisses in return.
11 AM was for breakfast. When your stomachs started complaining too loudly to ignore, you decided that getting out of bed might actually be a good idea. Sometimes the bright pink, sugary scent of pancakes, other times the warm, savory, earth toned smell of bacon. Though more often than not there wasn’t any smell, just the clinking of silver spoons against white ceramic bowls, cereal being the only lazy option of a morning meal. He sat on the counter, you chose to stand; the table in the corner really didn’t get a lot of use. It was a near silent meal, but you didn’t need to talk. That was saved for later.
12 PM was for the first real activities of the day. Maybe dressed in real clothes, maybe not. Depends on how motivated you are. Shopping trips, cleaning sprees, “hey-that-light-has-been-out-for-a-week-we-should-probably-change-it”’s. Whatever you were feeling, or really, whatever actually needed to be done or you would be in trouble. Nothing too fun, but he always made it a good time. Sarcastic comments about fellow shoppers, using the broom handle as a mic stand and lip syncing the music that blasted through the apartment. Dumb things, and little things, always painted in youthful yellow and playful pink, but good things.
2 PM was for talking. When you got too bored of the day’s activity, you collapsed onto the couch and stayed there, sometimes for a couple minutes, sometimes for hours; it depended on how much you had to talk about. Work, school, friends, family, the weather; really, anything you thought of, you discussed because you really did not want to finish polishing the entire apartment’s wood floors. The ceiling got a lot of attention during this time, but you didn’t need to look at each other to see reactions because you could hear them. The way his voice pitched up when he was about to laugh. The way he talked slower when it was something actually important and he wanted you to really understand. The way he sounded when he was being sarcastic versus when he was actually serious. These were the times when you always learned something new about each other; even now, years after you met, you still found yourself finding another piece to the huge, complicated puzzle that was your boyfriend. These were also the times that you remembered, laughing at the embarrassing moments and smiling wistfully at the good ones. A lot was shared between the two of you, the gray areas filled in with color.
5 PM was for dinner. Early dinner, because lunch was usually always purposefully forgotten in favor of more talking. Sometimes it was take-out, or if you had gotten ingredients earlier, maybe some new recipe that you had seen online and wanted to try your hand at making. Or maybe it was still homemade, but an oldie and a goodie. Or maybe you just decided to run to the nearest convenience store and pick up two packs of microwave ramen, the red kind because the orange wasn’t spicy enough. Any way it came, you ate together. The discussion of this meal was what to watch afterwards. How about that new movie that just came to Netflix a couple days ago? Or that one TV show you really wanted to watch and finally found online? Basically, what should you play on the screen this time so you could have an excuse to cuddle?
10 PM was for drives. You had gotten bored with watching a flickering screen and exchanged the blanket tassels you had been braiding together in favor of your car keys. All the windows down, hair loose and blowing every which way, hazel stripes flying across your vision and his the same color of the sky at that time tickling his forehead. Goosebumps pebbled your skin, the wind slightly colder than chilly, but that was part of the fun. His giggles painted the air around you happy yellows and bright oranges, while your laughs splattered in some vivid blue and vibrant green. They splashed together and created the newest Pollock piece in the front seat, one that may not sell for a lot but meant the world to the both of you. You took turns driving (he liked the busy city while you prefered the open country), but your hands never disentangled. It was the source of warm in the cold, the spot of red on the canvas. And the longer you drove, the more red appeared. You got colder, he got touchier. If you drove long enough, got far enough away from the city lights that the only way you could see each other was the green glow of the dashboard and if you were lucky, the silvery spotlight of full moon, the canvas became drenched in rose red. If you made an exhibit of all your night drives, the majority of the works would be painted in a shade of the color. Not that you cared. Red was never a bad color to begin with, and with him as the cause of it, you definitely couldn’t complain.
12 AM was for cold sheets and hot skin. Breathless laughter and low moans painted this scene, and though it was pitch black outside, your minds were painted with all the colors of the rainbow as love and lust pulsed strongly through the room.
1 AM was for light kisses and mumbles of “I bet I can stay awake longer than you,” “You said that last time and a minute later I heard you snore,” and “I do not snore!” Random thoughts became words, for the dark blues and deep purples of the night didn’t judge like the day did. Long conversations of nothing at all were written into memories, stored for the later hours when you were more awake and could laugh at the dumb things you said.
2 AM was for midnight snacks. Basically, your third meal of the day. Usually eaten in just your underwear, or sometimes even less, colored by the yellow street lights or the white light of the fridge. Ice cream straight from the carton, cold pizza left over from…two days ago? Three? It smelled like pizza still, so it couldn’t be too bad. Hot chocolate in the winter, lemonade in the summer. Another silent meal, for everything that was to be said was done so an hour earlier. But it was comfortable. City sounds were that hour’s soundtrack, accompanied by the occasional woosh of the fridge opening and the clink of whatever utensils you blindly grabbed from the drawer.
4 AM was for the last “I love you”s of the day, sometimes the first glimpses of the pink and orange sun playing on the edge of the horizon if it was that time of year. Covers pulled up, your head always on him, his arm always around you. Legs tangled comfortably, chests rising and falling in sync That’s how your night ended, and your day began. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
The weekends always came and went faster than the speed of light. But that didn’t mean the memories they made were colorless.
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