5 am. Sunday morning. All is calm.

I sit and watch the Sun rise wondering if She is awake.

 

5 am. Sunday morning. All is calm.

I sit and watch the Sun rise wondering why I’m awake.

 

5:30 am. She’s not awake.

She likes to sleep in and wait for the Sun to kiss her soft, red cheeks.

 

5:30 am. I don’t feel awake.

I watch the birds play in the trees next to my window and wonder where my wings had gone.

 

6 am. Something is stirring.

The slight upturn of her nose, the slow curling of her feet, the slight flip of the hair, the quiet moan, she quakes.

 

6 am. Something is stirring.

Releasing pressure from the night the house wakes with a scream loud enough to drown my own, I quake.

 

6:30 am. She’s feeling the heat.

There’s no way to cover herself from the risen Sun, no way to cover the parts of herself that peaked out to challenge the Sun.

 

6:30 am. I’m feeling the heat.

T-minus 3 hours until church. Never had I heard a sermon of Fire and Brimstone. Looking down I can see my heat. I can feel my body betraying me, ‘Not today, not today!’

 

7 am. Trying to cool down.

She flips her pillow. Letting the Sun do as it wants with her body she waits for the cool of the pillow to fade, taking her pain with it.

 

7 am. Trying to cool down.

It was as if the Jews and the Palestinians had made my soul their battleground. A war waged on: My God vs. My Girl. My blood boiling, my hands shaking, I find my way to the shower. Sitting, I wait for the cold water to merge with my tears and cleanse me.

 

7:30 am. She moans.

Slowly, she removes the thin shield that protected her from the harshness of the World, of the Sun. It’s too early for any of this, it’s too early to remember the night, to feel the pain.

 

7:30 am. I moan.

It’s too early for any of this. She shouldn’t even be in my mind, in my heart, in my soul. Coming out dirtier than I went in I knew that the water must not have been Holy.

 

8 am-9 am. Layers.

Finding no resolve, she removes the only thing shielding her from the day. She winces at the cold air. Much like her lover, the Sun had deceived her. The clothes it took seconds to remove the night prior now piled in the corner rejected just like her.

 

8 am-9 am. Layers.

Bra, Boxer Briefs, Shirt, Jeans, Socks, Sweater. Are these enough layers? Will they be able to see right through me? Will they be able to tell of my midnight ride? Maybe just one more sweater, a pair of old boots, a beanie. How would they know that soft pecks had been laid their the night before? I hid them well.

 

9:30 am. She’s hungry.

Feeling as if she had run a marathon, she finds her way down the stairs. Each step reminding her of the ones she has taken the night before to get to the finish line. Food had always been a good option, failing her less times than anyone else. She saw the eggs, her lovers favorite. One by one she cracked the shells hard and fast. Hard and fast.

 

9:30 am. I’m hungry.

Knowing full well that my eggs and toast had filled me up, I sit here at the intersection wondering why I am not satisfied. I keep telling myself ‘Some meals are more memorable than others, it’s hard to top a feast.’

 

10 am. The beginning.

How many times had she done this, been a character in this story? Each time the story the same, each time read with more passion and understanding, each time her heart crushed in the end.

 

10 am. The beginning.

The band is getting tuned. The tightening and loosening of heart strings, the pounding in my chest. I know the road to her house is not the straight and narrow. This is only the beginning. Each time the story the same, each time I read with more passion and understanding, each time I crush the heart of the one I love the most.

 

 

This is only the beginning. This is only the beginning. I repeat my mantra as I step into the sanctuary. Placing my pen down, she picks hers up. Not knowing what I have written, hoping to change the story she writes, ‘10 am. Sunday morning. All is calm.’