Monday was Donald Scripps’ favourite day of the week. Not a common choice, he understood, but his favourite all the same.
Because on Mondays, at exactly 12:15, he would slip out of his chair and leave the office, smiling in anticipation. He would get into his car and drive the 15 minute journey to David’s school, grabbing his satchel of music and heading to the office to be buzzed in. The receptionist would greet him with a friendly smile of recognition and let him through with a nod and a “He’s expecting you”. He would walk the familiar route down the winding corridors until he got to David’s classroom, and then open the door with a grin.
If the room was empty, David would turn and greet him with a soft kiss, and if a few students had already piled in, a coy smile on his face as Scripps slid into his seat by the piano. A few more students would trickle in, all laughing and grinning. And when they were all gathered, David would hand him a piece of sheet music, and Scripps would obligingly play along. The students voices would soar through the air as David conducted them, pure joy slathered across his face. Scripps would sneak adoring glances at David throughout the piece, grinning at the beam that appeared on his face as he sang along. He would reflect the loving smiles that David occasionally flashed at him, making sure his students wouldn’t see them flirting over the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald.
And if there was enough time after the students had left (and David always made sure there was), David would close the door and roll down the blinds, turning to Scripps with a gleam in his eyes. He would wrap an arm around Scripps’ waist, lean him back against the piano and kiss him until his blood was on fire, his brain frying with electricity and he couldn’t tell if the noise in his ears was the ringing of the school bell or the thudding of his heart. Sometimes, Scripps’ fingers would flicker around the rim of David’s trousers, and David would take his hand and run it through his hair, pulling him closer as Scripps smiled against his lips.
Finally, David would break away, gasping, and send Scripps on his way with a hug and a “See you later”. Scripps would smile the whole way back to the office and slink back into his chair. And his co-workers would pretend not to notice his slightly loosened tie, rumpled hair and dopey grin. Perhaps there would be some gentle teasing about what he and his girlfriend had been getting up to in his lunch break, and Scripps would blush and ignore them. Maybe one of his co-workers would ask him what his plans were for the weekend, and he would reply that he and his partner (always a tactical partner – there was no need for them to know about David, and David never mentioned him at his work either) were thinking of just having a weekend to themselves. One of his co-workers would laugh at how domestic they were, and Scripps would protest that he was only 24. But deep down he knew they were very domestic, stupidly so, and secretly he loved it.
He would lean back on his chair and smile as he started to type, thinking of David’s arms around his waist, his lips pressed against his own, and the gentle press of the piano digging into his spine. Sometimes he would slide open his drawer and gaze at the hidden photo of him and David, the only clue of them on his desk. And he would think to himself as he wrote, smiling happily.
Mondays. Yes, he liked Mondays.