Rhymes with freedom, doesn't it?

Dear future hubster,

when the Saturday night is a little chillier, and we don't leave all the windows open, and as a result, on Sunday morning we don't wake up neither to the church bells ringing from 7 on, nor to the neighbour's dog's sun salutations, but lazy around in bed because it's Sunday, because I gave myself the morning off from dissertation misery and you can't work in the garden in this heat anyway - those mornings be prepared to me rolling over, with a mild kick to your shin, because my spatial awareness is not very well developed, and expect me to tickle your collarbone and mumble to your shoulders. Probably not in English, but that doesn't matter, you would know that I'm mumbling something about breakfast and coffee, but you would also know that I don't want you to go downstairs and make it, nor do I want to go downstairs and make it, it's but an acknowledgement that mornings, breakfast and coffee somehow go together. 

Those are the rare occasions when something takes priority over coffee. Enjoying a morning of not having to do anything until we decide to do it.