She is a Sunday girl. A lazy Sunday girl. On Sundays, there are no alarms to snooze. She sleeps for as long as she likes. Then half-awake, she lazes in bed. One eye dug into her soft white pillow, and with the other, she watches the summer sun, catawampus, stream into her room. She stares at the brown hair on her unshaven arm glisten. She needs to go wax in the evening. She stares at her arm. Rolls over to the other side when the sun has blinded her. She lights her morning cigarette – it’s afternoon. Trails through the first few drags. It’s too hot to smoke. She stubs it. Her ashtray is full of twisted, half-smoked cigarettes lying like dead worms. It’s summer — her favourite season. But it should rain. It’s too hot. She would like some chamomile tea. But it’s too hot. She wants the amaranthine sun to set. Or be enveloped by dark nimbus clouds that look like dirty cotton balls. It’s too hot. She flips through some channels on TV. The news is too disheartening. She moves to Romedy Now. The movies are lying to her. She switches off the television. She picks up her book and opens to the page she marked. She reads. Books don’t lie.
Occasionally, her neighbour downstairs, who is a boy of 8, runs up to her window and catches her smoke. “You know you shouldn’t smoke so much,” he tells her disapprovingly and sprints back home. She rolls her eyes, makes a face and stubs her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray of dead worms.
The dirty cotton balls loom. It rains. Finally. The sun hasn’t quite set yet, but it’s dark. The streetlights are on. She switches off the lights in her room. She shuts her book. She was waiting for this. The magical sound of ‘So Tonight That I Might See’ gently leaks from her speakers, the complete album. Or not. Sometimes it’s just the rain. She stares out the window and watches the rainfall break into smithereens against the old, yellow lamppost. She has a direct view from her bed. She stretches out her legs, crosses them at the ankles and stares. It’s perfect. And the mise en scène never gets old. And she never gets tired. She gapes and gawks, until she falls off to sleep on the bed she never got up from. She is a Sunday girl. A lazy Sunday girl.