She came to visit him every Sunday morning. Whether Saturday night meant dinner with Darryl at his favorite Mexican place or fruity cocktails with girlfriends at Scranton's only acceptable club or an awkward meal with her entire family or just an evening on the couch with Keanu and Brad, she always dedicated the next morning to him. In fact, in those moments in between when her friends were busy gossiping about some cute guy at the next booth over or Darryl was knocking back yet another beer, her mind would inevitably drift to him. She couldn't explain why she felt such a sense of duty to him, but she did.

She would like to think that if the situation were reversed, he would make the two-hour drive every week just for a few minutes of conversation with her in a crowded, stale room. However, their past history dictated that she would likely find herself waiting uselessly every Sunday morning for someone that was never going to show up for her. It was a lonely feeling really, to know that someone didn't care about you as much as you care for them. Still, that didn't deter her faithfulness to the situation. Even if he couldn't be there for her, she would always be there for him. Someone had to show up for him.

That sad sentiment was the only thing capable of dragging her from bed just after dawn that Sunday morning. Kelly grumbled to herself as she turned over in her plush bed, reaching across the empty mattress to click off the alarm clock. She wished that she could be like any other carefree single girl and actually sleep in on a Sunday morning for once, but like the rest of her week, she had somewhere she had to be. Sitting up slowly, she reached up absently to wipe the sleep away from her dark eyes. The room was still dark at the early hour, but she still managed to find her way across the thick carpet and into the bathroom.

Kelly didn't even look as she started the shower, willing the water to heat up as quickly as possibly for once. Most mornings she liked to listen to pop music while she got ready, but Sundays were always different. On Sunday mornings, she would listen to alternative music, his music. The sad melodies of Coldplay and Ben Folds were her only comfort as she prepared to visit him once again. She hated seeing him there, so desolate and alone. The isolation was doing a number on his already fragile demeanor, but there was little she could do to help him. She simply had to hope that her visits did their part, even if he pretended to be apathetic. Kelly knew better, however; she had seen the way his clear blue eyes lit up whenever she came into the room.

After a half-hour, Kelly dragged her tired body from the shower and dried off quickly. She glanced at the clock on the microwave as she passed back into her bedroom. Quick mental math told her that she had less than an hour before she needed to be on the road if she wanted to make it for the morning visiting hours. He was counting on her to be there, and she couldn't let him down. Tossing the towel away from her short, silky black hair, she studied herself in the mirror for a moment. She looked more tired than usual, something that had become more and more frequent since the initial trial. Shaking off the fatigue, she headed for the closet and pulled out what had quickly become her favorite Sunday outfit.

Kelly had watched Breakfast at Tiffany's the night before the first time she went to visit him in New York. In a strange way, she found herself connecting to the Holly Golightly character. She could sympathize with the young woman who felt like she didn't belong to anyone. More often than not, she felt like she was alone in this world. The only time she had felt differently was when she was with him. It was the only time she had ever really given her heart to someone, despite what everyone thought. Most people thought that she was a vapid, shallow airhead who fell in love easily. No one knew how hard it had been for her to commit herself so wholly to him. And when he broke her heart, no one knew how she had closed her heart off to the rest of the world again.

Anyhow, in watching the movie, Kelly noted how Holly dealt with her visits to Sing Sing to visit Sally Tomato. She was carefree about it, not letting the somberness of the atmosphere affect her sparkling personality. Then and there, she decided that she would be that for him. She could morn the entire situation in private, but when she was with him, she would make the best of every moment. Dressing like Holly had given her the courage to do just that – from the big Jackie O. sunglasses to the oversized hat with the trailing satin ribbon to the perfect little black dress. The only difference was her hair, which was much shorter than Audrey Hepburn's had been for the film. Kelly instead elected to tuck hers back with a pair of rhinestone barrettes and hoped that the slight alteration wasn't enough to deter the power of the outfit.

The last touch of the outfit was always the black crocodile pumps. She had bought them especially to visit him. It seemed silly to spend so much on a pair of heels just to visit prison, but she needed them. They gave her that extra boost of confidence. They enabled her to pretend that she was someone else, if only for a little while. As she pulled them on near the doorway to her apartment, she suddenly felt transformed. One last look in the mirror and a curt nod of approval and Kelly was out the door, her matching black handbag tucked firmly under her arm.


She came to visit him every Sunday morning. Whether Saturday night meant his monthly shift in the infirmary restocking supplies or rereading the books and magazines she brought for him like clockwork or trying to write a letter he had composed in his head a million times or an evening on the couch watching television with Bubba from the next cell block over, he always felt a little bit better knowing that she was coming for him the next morning. In fact, in those moments in between when he was trying to choke down the pathetic joke the prison tried to pass off as food or his cellmate was concocting yet another scheme to pilfer cigarettes from the guards, his mind would inevitably drift to her. He couldn't explain why he felt such a sense of relief at the thought of her, but he did.

He knows that if the situation were reversed, he would never come all that way to see her, let alone every single week. His past behavior illustrated just how little he was really willing to do when it came to her. It was a lonely feeling really, to know that he could never be the man that she deserved to have lover her. Still, that didn't deter his selfishness in the situation. Even if he wasn't going to be there for her, it didn't mean that he would stop taking all that he could from her. She always showed up for him.

That comforting sentiment was the only thing capable of dragging him from his bed just as the sun made its way over the horizon that Sunday morning. Ryan grunted to himself as he flopped over on his stomach to check his wristwatch. He wished that he could be like any other twentysomething guy in New York and wake up with some nameless girl in his bed, but like the rest of the week, his only company was Bruno in the top bunk. Sitting up slowly, he swiped angrily at the sleep in his bright blue eyes. The building was still eerily still at the early hour, but he still managed to hear the hollow pounding of his heart as he walked into the grimy bathroom.

Ryan didn't even look as he turned on the faucet, knowing full well that he wasn't going to get any hot water. Most mornings he would turn on his shower radio and listen to acoustic rock while he bathed, thankful for his only other connection to normal life. However, on Sundays, he would listen to pop music, her music. The bright harmonies of Christina Aguilera and Beyonce reminded him of how they'd once been as he waited to see her once again. He hated that she saw him here, so pathetic and broken. The entire situation was doing a number on her otherwise cheerful personality, but there was little he could do to save her. He simply had to hope that he was making it worth it, even if she was only pretending that he was. Ryan knew better, however; he had seen the way the light was dimming in her chocolate brown eyes with every visit.

After his allotted ten minutes, Ryan dragged his sullen body from the shower and dried off quickly. He glanced at his watch again as he headed back to his cell. He deducted that he had a half-hour before she would arrive for the morning visiting hours. He was counting on her to be there, and he knew that she wouldn't let him down. Swiping the towel over his coal black hair, he dropped it on the bed and studied himself in the jagged piece of glass that functioned as his mirror. He looked thinner than usual, something that was inevitable since that first trial. Shaking off the depression, he pulled out his Sunday finest from the plastic bin that doubled as his dresser.

Ryan had watched Cool Hand Luke the first night he was in jail. In a decidedly male way, he found himself wishing that he could connect to the Luke character. He wanted to be that brave young man who felt like he didn't belong in jail. More often than not, he knew that he did. The only time he felt different was when he was with her. It was the only time he had ever really been able to see the very best version of himself, despite what everyone thought. Most people thought that he was this cocky, confident player who didn't care about anyone. No one knew how hard it had been to always have to push her away. And when he broke her heart, no one knew that he had cried himself to sleep every night for two weeks.

Anyhow, in watching the movie, Ryan noted how Luke dealt with being trapped in prison. He was relentless about it, not letting the situation seem too hopeless as he escaped again and again. Then and there, he decided that he would be that for her. He could worry about everything when he was alone, but when he was with her, he was going to do his best to pretend that everything was going to be fine. Dressing like Luke gave him the courage to embody that spirit with his blue button-up shirt and black work boots. The most notable difference was his hair, which Ryan refused to change. Instead, he elected to keep the same tousled hair she loved to run her fingers through and hoped that it gave her a little piece of who they used to be.

The last touch of the outfit was always the unsmoked cigarette he kept tucked in his shirt pocket. He had won it in a poker game especially for her first visit. It seemed silly to cling tightly to something worth a handful of change, but he needed it. It gave him that extra edge of testosterone. It enabled him to pretend that he was tougher than he really was, if only just for a bit. As he arranged it carefully in his pocket by the lone window in his cell, he suddenly felt transformed. One last look in the makeshift mirror and a lackluster shrug of disinterest and Ryan followed the guard out of the cell, her photograph hidden secretly next to his heart.