SUNDAY

IT was Sunday—not a day, but rather a gap between two other days. Sitting on the couch looking at his hands resting on his knees he feels sucked into a vacuum. His eyes are red and raw. He can feel the topography of blood vessels in each one with every blink.
The house is still. Not even the air is moving. You know how sunlight can come in through the slats in the blinds and illuminate all the dust, skin, and hair floating through the air. He doesn’t even see that stirring.
The walls are painted a cool flat white over an orange peel texture. The carpet is blue. Not a deep blue. The mild, benign blue you might find in a home for the elderly. The carpet feels stiff under his feet.
It’s quiet. Deep space quiet. He can hear a sucking noise every time he blinks. The sound is dry and wet at the same time. It’s not a comforting sound.
The couch is rough and corrugated. The pattern tattoos itself on his back, butt, and the bottom of his legs. It’s hot. The fabric doesn’t breath against his skin. The small of his back is sweating. The sweat runs down the crack of his butt. Underneath where he sits the couch is soaked through, cold and damp.
He can’t imagine what anyone else might be doing today. He can’t imagine what he should be doing today, on this non-day. He sits on his cold, rough couch facing a blank, white wall balling his feet in the blue carpet.