Like Lovers Do

Saturdays were supposed to be fun.

It was the day when individuals could take a break, rest their weary feet without the stress of the upcoming week on their shoulders; hence why Sundays, despite technically considered part of the weekend, gained less respect. Anderson hated Sundays: the day was only a lie hiding behind a facade of a good name. It was a reminder to him that, soon, he would have to start his life again.

However, though Sundays were a nice daily dose of reality, Saturdays weren't as better. Everyday, he'd wake up earlier than most kids would usually wake up on said weekend day, get dressed, eat breakfast, drive to work, slave for ten hours, drive back home and stare at the wall in his room.

Routine followed, and auto-pilot turned on.

Heaving a sigh, he rubbed the sleep that dare to linger from his eyes. The action proved futile; not only because he was still tired, but because all he would continue doing was stare until he finally registered the fact he needed sleep.

His phone rang; the illusion breaks.

With an unknown alacrity, even to him, he answered it with a quick grunt of acknowledgment. "What?"

"Where are you?" Oh, it's Dave.

"It's eleven at night. Where do you think I am?" His response almost came out as a growl of irateness. He was not a night person, clearly.

"Chill on the attitude, Anderson." Amelia's voice filled his head. The beating of his heart almost becomes a familiar erratic pattern at it. Truth be told, he missed her already. Only a couple of days and he couldn't help but trip over his two feet at the mere sound of her voice; how pathetic of him.

"Could say the same with that temper of yours, Jacks," he shot back in defiance. The two constantly battled each other with their stubbornness and presumptuous ways, but undeniable chemistry was inevitable.

"Don't challenge me, Henry."

He already did. Both of them were already dancing a tango of ferocity and fire.

"What do you want?" he was finished playing games. He liked things straight to the point and precise.

"Gwen, Dave and I are at my house. Bring ice cream and pizza," she responded. No fluff, sugar coating, unnecessary introduction to her wants.

"Look, as much as I would enjoy the three of you bashing men with snot covered faces, I'm too tired to go out. Bye," he hung up before she could say another word. Call him rude, but his biological clock kept ringing to portray his need of sleep. Laying down on the plush matress, he clutched his phone to his chest.

His heart thumped too quickly for his liking. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Useless, this was. Why couldn't he stay happily in love with someone without the petty fights and meaningless words spat at each other in spite? Common phrases of hate and anger tossed back and forth like a game of tennis. He had experienced more fights than a wedded couple did in a lifetime.

Simple sentences of small talk would suffice for him. Simple nods, smiles, frowns, shakes of a head, grunts, growls, hums; he preferred them rather than the violent aggression heard in screams and yells.

But of course, anyone did.

"Damn it," he grunted in irritation.

At this rate of thinking, there was no way he'd get the sleep his body screamed for.