SUNDAY

It’s balmy outside; like every day this year has been. The sun scorches the foreheads of men and stews folk wearing polo knit sweaters under their suits. I’m at a friend’s balcony, leaning on the rails; my eyes grazing at the distance. I savour the ambience of the day’s indolence, brooding in thought and frivolous vacantness.

Sunday is an eccentric day. She has not much to say. She speaks intrapersonally. She’s the demure girl that finds herself in shindigs. She curls away in solitude but is misconstrued as dismissive and impertinent. She doesn’t try to embody someone else. Sunday is Sunday.

A distinct whiff of weed floats in the air, presumably from the chap and bird having a rather confrontative confer on the immediate upper balcony. I’ve tried weed a few times, it doesn’t do it for me. It doesn’t augment my senses like others claim it does. It makes me feel jaded and sleepy, like I am fighting a shot of tranquilizer.

My stay at the balcony has morphed from me overhearing them to blatant eaves dropping. They piqued my interest and now I’m engrossed. I’m rooting for the chick.

She’s berating him for ditching her whilst she was leathered the previous night. She has a raspy tinge to her voice. A smoker’s hallmark; her voice is laced with smoke. The guy on the other hand is nonchalant and unremarkable. He returns curt answers like he is the king of brevity. Staunt replies with no pulse. Might be the weed. Or, it might just be that he doesn’t like her enough to give a squat. Eventually – he apologises – under duress.

A preacher fervently winds a sermon in a colossal iron sheeted church in the distance. Churches are a big thing (read business) here. The economic prospects are unequivocally viable. Give or take that, it’s relatively pacific. Nothing much is happening.

It’s a Sunday. She doesn’t have much to say. We listen to her heart beat bashfully in tenuous throb.

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