What do you do on sundays?

When you wake up and there’s thirty minutes before she leaves and has family coffee. I love the idea of family coffee, every sunday, meeting up and drinking and laughing and sharing your week’s worth of news. It’s brief but close knitting and then everyone goes home, everyone goes on with their routine. Sundays are a countdown to me living alone too many years in a row, they are walking to the same second cup, buying the same drink, past the same houses, the same yards, the same hotdog ventor that cries out, "Hi Copper!" and offers free burnt weiners for happy little dogs that too don’t so much like living alone but try to be patient because patient is what you are with those you love.

Icespresso chiller in hand, she searches through Kijii for shit she doesn’t need and tries not to think to hard about work, school, loan applications. She wants to put sex on worry like a bandaid, but the bandaid keeps geting wet and falling off. She wants to make poached eggs with hollandaise sauce but doesn’t know how. Cleaning looms. She counts down sunday hours until monday comes again. Kinda feels bad for monday, cause everybody hates you.

Sunday. It’s just a sad day.