Short Stop: This is Sunday

L.C. Hill

There’s a place in between peace and loneliness. I linger there. There is nothing unhappy about this place.

My dog hangs out there with me. We sit on the couch together. I drift off to sleep sometimes. So does he. More than I do. Often my foot is tucked near his. His eyes flutter open briefly as I wrap my toes around his tail. Then they close again.

There’s sunshine with occasional rain. Not thunderstorms. There’s just the patter of drops on the window air conditioner and a temporary darkening of the concrete. But that dries in the heat, even if the sun can’t push through the clouds.

Time moves slowly there, and I dream of what’s next. I tell him what the plans are. He briefly taps his tail on the floor at my words. I type a bit. He chews on his bone. He sits next to his bowl and takes his time with each bite. He has never been one for hurrying a good meal. We are the same in that way. We are the same in a lot of ways, but his patience—with me, with how slowly the earth rotates on its axis—has always run deeper than mine.

The sun sinks. I’m not ready for it.

This is Sunday.