He says Mondays are the sunrises of his week. On Mondays, he brews coffee for the two of us and kisses me good morning and sings love songs and dances in his silly cloud-printed underwear in our galley kitchen. Mondays are his favorite; so, Mondays are my favorite, too.

I’m so lucky to call him mine. I adore the way his right eye crinkles more than his left when he smiles full and fierce and the handful of freckles that play in the nooks and crannies of his tall, lanky body. I love his brandy-colored eyes and his hands that are just like mine, except tougher and lengthier. His eyes can’t tell the difference between reds and greens. I remember on our seventh date, I met him in a dress the color of a forest that I spent hours picking out and he said to me: “You always look so beautiful in red.” Even though he cannot see the difference, he still sees the beauty. Paired with his preferred art, photography, he captures sunrises and sunsets that he cannot see. I love him for it.

Tuesdays are different than Mondays. He doesn’t dance in his boxers or kiss me good morning or make me coffee with a spoon of sugar and two of cream. Instead, his words erupt from his mouth. They pummel my body. Every word leaves behind lines of unseen bruises, masked to him and the rest of the world. Though, I feel each one.

Wednesdays are worse than Tuesdays. On Wednesdays, he trades his camera for a brush. His palette: shades of reds and greens. His brush: a bottle of whiskey and a hurricane of jabs painting inside Tuesday’s lines. Him: eyes clouded by alcohol as we tango and waltz about the room. This is rhythm. This is our music. These are the beats that keep us together.

I feel him.

And then I don’t.

He storms out Thursday nights. With his black coat thrown over his arm and dark hair a disaster, he is gone. Collapsing onto our floor, I sit too numb to feel the pain. It’s my fault. It is. I should’ve let him have his way last night. If I would’ve, he wouldn’t be gone. He is now and it’s all my fault. Next week, I will give him all he asks for. Next week, I will be better. And, maybe, next week, he will be better. Right now, he’s gone. He left me with his reds and blues and purples. All I have left are the sunrises and sunsets imprinted on my skin that I’d rather be without.

But Fridays always make up for Thursdays. On Fridays, he comes home with flowers in the kaleidoscopic colors of my skin and presses his lips to my healing jaw. Tears trickle down his face. I sit motionless, silent. His lips hover over my flower-colored skin. He trembles. His lips part. They close. He draws back from me and he speaks. His lips sputter an array of Baby-I-love-you’s and Baby-I-never-meant-to-hurt-you’s and Baby-I-promise-I’ll-never-again’s.

I listen.

I believe him.

I look in the mirror. The fresh purples and blues of my skin gradually turns to reds and fading greens, a reminder to me, but he cannot see the difference. He creeps back into my home, my bed, under my sheets, and I feel him rising up in me, up through my feet and into my core and out of my mouth. I find myself humming his tunes on my way to work and tasting coffee on my breath. Saturday and Sunday allow me to forget and I wake up Mondays to him. I look in the mirror again. Flowers and sunrises and sunsets cover my skin and I see him.

He loves me.

I know he does.

And that’s why I won’t leave.