Sunday (1 of 7)

Light. It’s quiet. I keep my eyes shut as long as possible, curl up as tight as I can. Then, she sighs. Sunday sits in a chair tucked up by the window. Her knees drawn to her chest, her chin resting on the caps. “Good morning,” I say to her amid a morning stretch.

Another deep sigh. I shift out of bed and wander toward her. She is looking out at the trees, probably watching the leaves fall. I kneel down to look up at her. I brush her short, brunette hair back behind her ear. “What are you thinking about?” I ask quietly.

She doesn’t look at me. Her pupils follow the warm colors spinning, being pulled away. “I miss her,” she says.

“I know,” I say.

She tilts her head, resting her cheek on her knees and her eyes on me. “You saw her yesterday,” Sunday says.

“You’ll see her soon,” I say.

“Not soon enough,” she says, turning to watch the leaves again, “How is she?”

I put my hands on my thighs and slowly stand up. “She is-,” I say, walking over to the dresser behind Sunday’s chair, “She is a mess, like always,” I say.

I pull out some jeans while adding, “She still can’t figure out what she wants to do. Nothing, everything. She is quite the hand-full. You know, she even dyed her hair purple.”

I pull out a t-shirt and shut the drawers. “Of course, that’s easy for someone who doesn’t have to work,” I point out a bit bitterly.

Sunday says, deeply sighing once more, “She sounds free.”

“Hey now,” I say, shimmying into the jeans and t-shirt, “You know who you kind of sound like?”

“Who?” she says, absently.

I walk over and put my hands on the chair’s arms, filling her whole field of vision. “Monday,” I say.

That gets her attention. She whips her gaze around and sticks out her tongue. I ruffle her pixie cut. “That’s better,” I say, standing up, “Now, I know you want to see her, but that doesn’t mean we have to be miserable without her. What would you like to do today?”

She put her knees down and thinks for a minute. While looking at her hands in her lap, in a child-like voice, Sunday says, “Can we take a bath?”

“A bath would be nice! We can do that later this evening. What else?”

Sunday looks outside for one more moment before standing up and heading to the bed. “Well we have time for a nice, big breakfast,” she adds.

“I adore breakfast,” I say, helping her smooth out the comforter and arrange the pillows, “You know who else likes breakfast?”

“Don’t say it,” Sunday pleads.

I wrap my arm around Sunday and lead her toward the kitchen. I whisper in her ear, “Monday.”

She wiggles out from under my arm, “Quit saying her name. I can’t stand her. You know you are already ruining this day.”

“Oh,” I say, “And I made sure to record the new episode of that one show you like.

“Oh yeah!” she says, “Forgiven.”

Sunday walks to the kitchen, but I pause to look out the window one more time. I have never been a real fan of Monday either. Just like the leaves falling without fail, she will come; but the smell of brewing coffee helps bring me back to now. I turn down the hall and join Sunday.

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