I woke up to an empty house and took a deep breath from the void. Sunday always have a different smell to it. A whiff of closure mixed with expectation. Whatever Monday to Saturday had brought, Sunday always seemed to feel fresher. I’d wonder for a minute or two if it’s due to my Catholic upbringing and then I’d decide that can’t be since Fridays could never smell like Sundays no matter what religion you’re brought up with.
So I’d take a deep long breath and with that conclude all that is done during the past week and let it out with a huge big sigh into a day that seems to stretch longer than the rest. On Sundays the clock seems to tick to a slower tock. At some point I swear I could see them almost giving up already and just stay during that lull forever. Perhaps it’s enjoying the smell too much while Monday clearly frantically beckons around the bend carrying a jar that reeks of toil and sweats. But stay away Monday will do for now.
Sunday will keep rolling in its own pace.
Until I look at the calendar and realize that it’s actually Wednesday today.
Nothing screams unemployment like smelling Sunday on a bloody hump-day.