“I want a Sunday kind of love. When Saturday night’s perfectly applied makeup is smeared on one of those throwaway wipes and my hair is a mess and we guiltlessly spend all morning in sweatpants in bed. I’ll wear your college T-shirt with the faded "H" and the tiny hole on the right shoulder, you’ll wear a smile. And you’ll be scruffy even though you shaved the night before; they linger on your skin, the smoke from the bar and one too many whiskey sours and my Gucci perfume.”
