Sunday

This novella is written in dual first person points of view. Each chapter is labeled with who is narrating.

So far, thirty something Jameson Petry's life is in turmoil. He has a chance encounter with seventy something Iris. They bond over coffee.

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IRIS

I used to love Sundays. Back when Daniel was little and Lou was still with me, Sundays were our family day. It was okay for us to sleep in, stay in our pajamas until lunchtime.

Everyone seems to love Sunday mornings. It's a free day of sorts. Have coffee in bed while doing the crossword puzzle from the overstuffed Sunday edition of the Patterson Gazette or going to church for fellowship and worship. Sunday allows you a certain freedom that the rest of the days of the week don't have.

I don't do any of that. Sundays are empty for me. Margaret has tried and still occasionally prods me to go to church. It is not my thing. She's told me to take walks on Sundays. In her defense, she has no idea that merely walking to the end of the driveway to check the mailbox wears me out.

I figure I'll probably die on a Sunday. My soul will rise up to the pearly gates and God will say, "You never cared for Sundays so I figured you wouldn't mind missing one."

I shuffle into the kitchen, intent on making an omelette. I do like eggs. Of course, what's the first thing the heart specialist tells me? Cut back on eggs. Did I take his well intentioned advice? No. No, I did not.

Eggs were Lou and my love language. Feeling sad, we'd have eggs and bacon. Feeling amorous, sunny side up. For special occasions, I'd fix deviled eggs. I'd get so mad because Lou would pick them off the serving plate, one by one, while I was trying to finish preparing the meal.

"Stop eating them." I'd turn around to catch him red handed. Hastily, he'd try to get rid of the evidence by stuffing them into his mouth.

He'd look at me with that devil-may-care grin and come up with a million excuses why he took another one. "That one didn't have enough filling."

"Louis, I'm warning you. No more. Leave some for dinner."

I'd peek over my shoulder to catch him popping another into his mouth. "Lou," I'd say, sternly.

"There was an uneven amount. Come on, Iris, we can't have an odd number."

Every time, it was the same. I miss it. So damn much. I miss his smile, his voice, his embrace on those dark and lonely nights.

I shake off the melancholy mood that's wrapping its tentacles around me. Pulling out the carton of eggs, I try to think about something happy. Jameson is with his little boy. I know he was looking forward to seeing his son. Hopefully, that wife of his is, at least, willing to discuss their marriage. He needs some flicker of hope.

Lou and I had our share of problems throughout our marriage, but we never walked away from them. Together we confronted them. Countless times, once the anger had subsided enough for us to talk with cool heads, we would sit at the dining room table. There is always a solution. But you have to be willing to work through it together.

There's not a lot of people willing to do that now. It's a world of instant gratification. That extends to the divorce court.

I pull out a pot from under the cabinet and fill it with water. No omelette today. I'm feeling like some deviled eggs. I'll spend the day with my husband, his memory, at least.

I sit at the counter and wait for the water to boil.

"Lou, if you were here, I'd let you eat every one of them."