The attraction to sunlight for me as a unifying thread is squarely rooted in the unconstrained feel of spending hours wasting away an afternoon between the sheets. For a good portion of us that territory lies in the weekend. People know what I mean when I say sex that feels like Saturday. But even more wonderful, for me, are those afternoons stolen from the weekday. They are Tuesdays in a hotel somewhere else while we wait for the intimacy of the knock that brings room service. They are Wednesdays when we’ve ditched school. They are the first Thursdays of summer. I associate these stretches of daylight not with the more extreme sports I might engage in after midnight, but rather with the rolling haze and warmth that comes from so much closeness of skin and of breath in the space of two sheets. I associate these times with wrinkled sheets.
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