The original Sunday plan was to go to the vide grenier (flea market) in Perpignan.
We woke to the insistent church bells calling our neighbors to mass. I'd left the curtains open so I could see the sun come up, but what I saw was our rain drenched patio. The sound of the rain on the skylight was a counterpoint to the bells.
Cancel the vide grenier.
The bed was toasty warm. Two cups of tea only added to the coziness as we read and checked emails and Facebook.
It was well after ten before we got up, performed a few chores, as few as possible then walked to the car.
I reminded Rick, who was more than willing to go to the river to pick up the car and come back for me, (no parking on streets built for only small horse-drawn wagons to go through) that the rain is to dance in.
He looked at me, grabbed my hand and we did a few steps before almost running to the car.
The mountains were hidden in mist as we drove to Perpignan and the new Italian restaurant we discovered a week ago. The waiter recognized us.
Back home, a chore or two, in the complicity that makes me glad I am with him. I will miss him when he is away the next two weeks.
Because we write weekends and weeks can flow together, but somehow we still make Sundays stand a bit apart from the weeks.