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.

Sunny Was Here

It rains. The drops hit the tall glass wall, and I watch them.  I think, he’ll be here. I lean on the cold stone and slide down to my knees.  When it rains, it pours, I think. The street fills with the drops, and the cars slow.  I look down and pluck some puffs of fuzz from the wool that hides my arms.  He’ll be here, I think.  A man stares in as he walks by, but I look away.  I trace the cracks in the tile floor, and I think, he’ll be here.

As they walk, round domes of black keep the drops from their hair.  Some stare, and I look down once more.  I watch the light creep from me.  It fades from the tiles.  My head rests on the wall, and I think, He’s late.  I tuck my knees to my chest and fix my skirt.  I wore it for him; blues and greens zoom across the cloth.  It’s too cold for this skirt.  I grab my sleeves and pull them down.  I slip off the heels, and set them next to a crack in the tiles.  It was too far a walk for these shoes.

The rain looks bright next to the dark.  It holds light from the lamps and falls to the ground.  I stare out the glass.  I breathe on it and write in the fog, “Get here.”  I wipe it with my sleeve and move from it’s cold.  I braid my hair. I think of my next style, but he likes it long.  I’ll keep it long.  I’ll hit him, and tell him I’ll keep it long.  I move to write on the glass again, but I find no words to put there.  I can’t write, “He’s not here.” I can’t think, “He won’t be here.” I won’t.

I set my chin on my knees and breathe in the chill.  They sweep their brooms around me.  They look at me, but I look at the cracks in the tile.  I know they frown at me. I know they say, “Poor girl. It’s just her,” but I won’t hear them.  I’ll wait.  I think, he’ll be here, and so I wait.

My eyes wish to close and my mouth wants food, but what if he comes? What if he DOES come?  What words will he write on the glass? I see his ghost kneel down. He draws his lines neat, and I know the word he will make.  It would be her name.  He would write her name.  It’s her; not me.  I lift my body up off the floor, and pick up my shoes.  I feel – I breathe on the glass and write, “Sunny was here,” – cold. The door shuts behind me.

The drops break on top of my hair as I walk home. My eyes and steps trace the cracks in the street, and I think, I won’t write his name after this.

For some time, that made me happy. I felt strong; but the rain has not stopped, and I am still cold. I think, Sunny IS here. Sunny is here… But I do not feel “here.” I am still on the dry side of the glass with nothing to write.