Saturday, Sunday, Snapshots

“I’m up, I’m up,” she grumbles to her Saturday morning chores as they mock her cheerfully from their spots in the living room and kitchen. The cats simply stare at her with yellow and green eyes, waiting for her to pull the blinds so they can get to the difficult business of laying in the sun while their human does all the heavy lifting.

The chocolate fudge cake sits innocently in the refrigerator surrounded by basmati rice, free-range eggs and skim milk, the light from within highlighting it like a gift from the heavens. She glances at it, then at the stove’s clock, then back at it again, biting her lip and tapping her finger on the fridge door. What good is being an adult if you can’t have cake for breakfast, she decides with a shrug and a smirk.

’90s West Coast rap is good music to clean to. She knows their younger versions would vehemently disagree, but the thought of present-day Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre loading their dishwashers to their old music makes washing her own dishes a little more palatable.

A second piece of cake for lunch really won’t hurt anything.

She goes to Target for hardware to hang a couple of paintings. She comes out with hardware and a book. How did she even manage to find the book section at Target? Can books be considered a vice? Her to-read pile is monstrous enough, but she was already two chapters in taking up space in the middle of the aisle and by then she figured she might as well just buy the thing. There is, after all, no such thing as too many books.

The living room furniture could do with some rearranging, she thinks. Whether it needs to be done at midnight, however, is up for debate.

No matter her intentions, Sunday almost always ends up being a throwaway day, a true day of rest. “Any chance you’ve learned to cook?” she asks her cats, but they are in the sun again, which now crosses the rearranged furniture, and don’t even bother twitching their warm, languid tails at her in negation. She sighs heavily and stands, contemplating her food stores as she makes her way to the kitchen. The cake, after all, didn’t live to see the end of Saturday.

“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” —Ernest Hemingway
Shale theme by Siteturner