Waiting For Sunday to Start

I waited for Sunday to roll over me, crash its waves into my chest and tumble me to the shore.

A hard laugh catches in my throat, comes out as a mangled rattle. I forget what was funny, what I was even thinking.

I walk to the window. The Korean neighbor pulls out of his driveway. He takes the corner too hard. The rear wheel clips a plastic garbage can and snatches it under the car, drags  the can halfway down the block before it pops out, unharmed.

There’s a message there, I know. But what message?

From the other room, the football commentator’s brassy voice hammers stats and opinions into my father-in-law’s drunken face. He lives for football Sundays spent lying in his recliner drinking beer, moving only to go to the pisser or get himself another. He says he earned it. Nobody argues.

Later, I wonder why I can never remember transitions, how I move from one place to another. How I got here.

The little green man in the crosswalk turns into a blinking red hand, then a solid red hand, then back into a little green man. He does this all day, whether I am here or not.

I take a deep breath and wait for Sunday to start over from the beginning.

Sunday Photo Fiction