SUNSETS ON SUNDAYS
On Sundays, you want to lounge under the setting sun with a sparkling glass of Merlot. A breeze will blow an array of dead leaves your way, and the wings of retiring crows will flutter away in the distance. He will shudder next to you, and you will move to wrap the blanket tighter around yourself. “What do you make of this city?” A vendor will cross the street below you pushing a cart of toys, two girls and a boy will chase after him distractedly, their mother’s call trailing the dust in their wake. You smile, “I love it.” You will lean over the balcony, he will shift a little closer to you, your ankles will touch. He will ask “What do you make of this weather?” A lone cloud will stretch across the sky in a lazy stroll. In the distance the ocean will glitter red and orange, it smells of seaweed and roasted corn from down the street. A car will honk, you will turn your head. “It’s perfect.” He will stare at your lips, you will tilt your head slightly, your breaths will intermingle. “What do you make of this day?” You will trace his jaw, his eyes hold the promises of days like these, days with wine and sunsets, days where he looks at you like if he could give you all the stars in all the universe, he would. “The best one so far.” He will smile and lean closer to you, so close that his lips will graze yours when he asks his next question. “What do you make of this life?” There will be the relentless cries of an ambulance, while the only…
