The hard stuff happens on Sundays.
It’s a long day; we’re both home,
no work, a time to relax, time to ponder
about each other and wonder
just what we’ve gotten into.

“Tell me the color of my eyes.” She says.
“Do you seriously not know?”
“I’ll bet you don’t know,” she responds.
I put down the dishes. I didn’t want to be doing them anyway.
“I don’t know. I don’t look you in the eyes.”

“Are you on the spectrum?” She asks.
“Possibly. I am incredibly sensitive to eyes.
Even saying the world repeatedly makes me tear up.”
“You’re weird.”
“This is not an update for anyone in this city.” I offer,
and shrug, “If I were to guess, I’d say asphalt grey.”
She throws a pillow. “They’re blue, idiot.”

Things thaw quickly, but something else will occur,
something else one of us doesn’t know about the other.
That, apparently,
is what Sundays are about.