Sundays are for quietly mourning things of which I will not speak. They are also for discussing Nietzsche at brunch (just kidding), for lazily watching movies, for looking at the syllabus and realizing how much work you should have done on Saturday or Friday. They are for frantic radio shows, and brisk walks home smiling and singing all the way. They are for counting the boys at brunch. ("We done good this weekend." "We sure did.") They are for omelettes and oatmeal and chattery telephone calls with my mama. They are for squaring away my life, doing the dishes, cleaning my room, listening to tremendously sad songs, for putting off real work. Sundays are for making eyes at strange men and feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Sundays are for composing a letter that has been put off for a long while now. Sundays are for damage control, caring for the party-wounded, tending to the hungover and emotionally upset. They are for awkward conversations with a girl, in too bright light, about how much she likes school. "Oh, I have always loved it here," I half lie, half speak the truth.

2002-10-27, Sundays

before / after

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