Sundays in Post Postmodernism

classic literatureSunday, and people play cards in the street, chairs arranged in circles. Laugh and smile, wipe their foreheads. At restaurants carafes of water sit and crowds wear sunglasses. There are hour long waits. Everyone is happy that they are not at work. They drink coffee in the late afternoon sun.

She looked at me from under heavy-lidded eyes. There was no way we couldn’t spend the rest of our lives together. Until she deliberately screened a phone call or talked about old boyfriends. But Sundays after the sweaty afternoon sex were sad. There was not the reassuring night sex because she had to go home and we had to prepare for the week. As the light softened and the shadows lengthened, the five day haul creeped into our minds.

The streets emptied and food smells leaked from windows. Evening proceeds and it quiets. They embrace Sunday, remember their responsibilities and finesse some courage to face the work week.
 She goes home. I want to cry, loving love too much, and think if I could be without her. And about youth and life ahead. With her and without her.

Daniel Adler, Hot Love on the Wing, 226

By Daniel Ryan Adler

Daniel Adler writes fiction and nonfiction and is finishing his MFA at University of South Carolina.

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