Sundays hurt.
You get hit, and it's okay? I get hit and suddenly, it's time to throw in the towel?
She's sitting on her couch, legs tugged beneath her. The stream of her coffee coming out in puffed air. It's quiet, the only sound coming from the clock. A shadow casts right next to her, created by the window that reflects her body.
You see her face and how she looks so absent. Lips in a tight line, her fingers are holding firmly the hot cup. They are keeping it close to her chest; Maybe it is really cold outside.
Next she is suddenly moving her head. Switching, so she looks to the window, just in time to see the clouds move away - to let in the rays of sun to warm her skin.
Her lips move and then they're forming a smile. You see the small wrinkles around her eyes. She is moving and stands up from her comfort zone, grabbing a mobilephone and you hear the dial.
The next sound goes peeep, peeep, peep - "Lightman."
"Hi Cal. Why don't you come over?"