For me, you are Sunday. Today is Sunday, and tomorrow will be Sunday. Because I am stuck in gingham yellow sheets, small white saucers with matching ceramic cups, cigarette ashes like a crop circle around them as I sip homemade coffee. The ***** brown liquid sloshing in the back of my throat, scorching my insides as I swallow something not nearly as painful as looking up for an answer to the crossword and realizing you are not in fact actually there, and your hand is not on my thigh, tracing the outline of my knee with your thumb. I am stuck
like a kid on the monkey bars. Deciphering between reaching my hand out to grab the next rung or just allowing myself to fall into the wood chips, welcome that scraped skin and soil in the worry lines of my palms. Because calling you, reaching out to that line, could end with me face up on my bed staring at the blades of my fan trying to pinpoint just one to follow around and around again. Or I could get your voicemail. Or you could see my number and decide to hang up. How close were we really anyway?
Or you could answer and we could talk through how bad the weather is, how we've been doing, and then get to the poignant silence, that hum in the background that coils through the wires into my ear, down the canal, and sinks into my heart until the pressure becomes too much. Until I tell you that its Sunday. That I need the 1994 Tony Award winning musical for 3 across, and hopefully, you'll give me the right answer.