Sundays used to mean something. They had the scent of routine, the shape of hope—until they turned into performance. A play where each act avoided connection but mimicked it well.
I woke early, as always, preparing breakfast before Sam emerged. Our deck, bathed in golden summer light, was meant for gatherings, laughter, community. It had seen none of that. Just me, eggs, bacon, two plates, and silence.
“Good morning,” she’d say, arms around me, silky pyjamas brushing my skin. She kissed my cheek. She stretched. She smiled. It was choreographed perfectly.
But there was no closeness. There was only ritual.
“Two eggs,” she’d say. I’d nod. I’d stare at her breasts when the neckline dipped, wondering if I’d ever touch them again. I wouldn’t. Not really. Not with meaning.
She yawned. “You kicked me in your sleep.”
“Sorry,” I’d offer, trying to mean it.
Beneath all of it, the lies baked like heat on bitumen. She didn’t sleep. I didn’t dream. Our vows had become wallpaper in a house filled with ghosts.
Yet I cooked. I waited. I set the table.
Sundays gave the illusion of peace. And maybe, just maybe, I could believe it again for ten fleeting minutes. But once the food cooled and the paper opened, silence stretched long across the deck like a shadow—patient, familiar, and quietly condemning.
[From SEETHINGS, downloadable and free for a limited time]
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