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Regarding Sunday

Regarding Sunday, there really wasn't much to talk about. She was my best friend and sometimes she would steal my lunch and call me Zaky-boy. This was all a lot of people knew about her.

But I knew Better.

Sunday was one of those people who was always flouncing around the hallways of our middle school with a quirky little smile on her face and a hum on her lips. A tune that never made it past the chatter of the students, a song that often got lost somewhere in the noise, but that didn't matter to her at all.

Sunday could hear it, so she was happy.

And when she walked by, God, when she just gaited past not a lot of people would notice her. She was just part of the crowd. Sure, Sunday could stand out in some ways- like her hair that reached her mid back; it looked like you had just set a forest on fire it was so red. And so curly, little ringlets that bobbed up and down when she walked.

Or her eyes- huge emeralds- florescent and doe like.

Walking down the halls, she would talk to just about everybody she saw (Though she stayed particularly close to me) just chat amiably to them. Some people liked it. Some some hated it. Didn't matter to Sunday either way.

She was talking, so godd*mn if she wasn't happy.


I was walking by the small park where Sunday lived on a Monday evening when I saw her hunched over on a bench and sobbing...just sobbing. Her shoulders were shaking and her body was retching like she was just about to puke.

So I said: "Sunday, what's the matter?" And she turned right around and told me to screw off or else she'd chase me away with a stick, and if she caught me, she'd shove it strait where the sun don't shine.

Well, I valued my life, and knew that when she wanted to be alone, she was to be left alone. It happened sometimes, and no one really knows why. She'll just get moody all of a sudden.

But that was alright.

That was Sunday.


The thing about her was that I always knew where she was. Now how in the world, you might ask yourself, would I know a thing like that?

Well, cause when Sunday had just walked by, I could tell. Like, have you ever stared at a really bright light for a while then looked down, and seen those little...dotty things?

It was like that. When she walked by a little stream of airy lightness cast out in a trail clipping her sneaker clad heals wherever she went.

And the little dots lead me to just where she had gone, and sometimes Sunday herself was just a little dot of light. Not a lot of people paid much attention, but those who did got one hell of a gift.


Once, She was lounging on my little futon of a bed, thick auburn ringlets spread out on the pillow like a fiery halo surrounding that pale, freckly face of hers. Her arms were above her head, fingers curled slightly at the knuckle as her eyes fluttered closed and she entered a state of Sunday Euphoria. (That's what I called it when she dissapeared off into her own little world to do her own little thing, 'cause she looked so d*mn euphoric doing it.) And I started to count the freckles that dotted the bridge of her little kitteny nose. I counted those little sunspots as I strummed notes on my guitar, playing "Kiss from a Rose" over and over again until every single one of them had been accounted for.

And when I ceased strumming the soothing repetitiveness, Sunday opened those shining emeralds of hers and asked why I had stopped. I told her I had a hand cramp and started up again. She layed back down and I found a whole new patch of freckles to count in the little space where her neck dipped into her shoulder.


A few days after the incident, me, Sunday and some of her other girlfriends were sitting under the large weeping willow in the courtyard when one, Sara Leah, commented;

"You have a lot of freckles on your nose, Sunday."

"Yeah." Her other counterpart stated "How many do you suppose there are?"

"one hundred and seventeen." I answered promptly, halfway into a bite of ham and cheese before I realized that I had said it. While the other girls laughed though, Sunday gave me that knowing smile. She gave me that grin that meant that she knew I had been counting, and that she was alright with it.

Because Sunday was like that. Somedays she was smiling and laughing, somedays she was moody and depressed. Somedays she was Sunday and somedays she was Tuesday or Wensday or Friday.

So, regarding Sunday? She was just a blur in the crowd, a girl and a day in the week. She was that one chick who stole Zak's lunch sometimes and called him Zaky-boy.

But to me she was a trail of light down the hallway, a forest fire, Emeralds and exactly one hundred and seventeen freckles.
Bad morning
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Upload Date: 31/12/1969

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