obsessed with sundays

A snippet from a fiction short story. Maybe.

She's standing dangerously close to you, wearing an emerald green dress. Breathtaking with curves Black men bow to. Her hair the color of toffee and a cascade of luscious curls that fall softly between her shoulders.

She swats at the unruly strands that sweep across her cheeks every so often as she talks, maintaining unwavering eye contact. She's a pageant girl maybe. Or perhaps the Jack and Jill type that swoons over your from-the-other-side-of-the-tracks demeanor.

That allure, that same need to know more about you, is what chains my soul to yours. Despite your rough childhood, you blend into any circle comfortably and command undivided attention. Quiet but undeniable. Unlike the typical horde of men currently shuffling between the cash bar and the dance floor, you're a gentleman who knows what he wants, making everyone want you.

I'm dizzy with admiration and annoyance at how you make her feel like the only woman you'll entertain in this lifetime. How you respectfully place your hand on the small of her back to usher her out of the path of stumbling partygoers drunk with joy and Dussé. You lean toward her leaving very little space for an interruption and even less room for my mind not to wander.

Your grin curls upward in unison with mine as you feel me stare and she tries to draw you closer.

I've been a voyeur for the better part of a ten minutes, and I no longer want to find a point in my girls' reality show recap to interject and disrupt our unspoken magnetism. I'd rather stay captured in this spiritual current we can't seem to shake amid this sea of electric souls.

But somewhere around my third drink, you appear quietly behind me and penetrate the convo seamlessly like a thief discarding his all-black attire and leaving no traces of robbery. With your arms now wrapped around my waist, I imagine it could be like this for more than one evening.

As you turn and walk away from the party’s view, I saunter behind you hand in hand and replaying it all: how we met, how we fell in love, why we decided it was best to live on opposite coasts. On nights like this, when fate pulls us into the same space, we toy with the what if. We fan a flame that can destroy our entire worlds — but the heat warms us.

My first real heartbreak was on Sunday, October 6, 2019.

I remember crying over toys that never made it from my Christmas wish list to the pile of wrapped presents under our tree when I was a sweet but slightly sour kid. And as a rowdy and somewhat angsty teen, breaking up with my first boyfriend felt like the end of the world. Even the men that came (and went) after him would feel like little apocalypses in my world. Still, nothing felt as devastating as my dad's death on Saturday, October 5, 2019.

They say in movies, days like that are a blur. And shit, they're right: I got the call, went to a friend’s birthday brunch, then posted a sad tribute to Instagram that couldn't do the love I have for my father any justice. I pushed it all down until the next night, when I could barely get off the floor. I fell apart — and in the months following, my life did too.

But more on that later. Just know that when your first love — a person whose existence is responsible for yours — leaves this physical space, that loss is present in every single detail of your life for quite a while. The crisp fall breeze became downright offensive, music made me nauseated, I was angry at time passing in fear I’d forget him, I became numb to the incessant pings of Slack, and the sincerest condolences felt like bullshit. I felt cheated by life. 

From that Sunday on, that day of the week was like Bane's Pit, a dark ditch in which I had crippling anxiety and spent hours hating God (and myself). Life was quietly whooping my ass mentally and spiritually, and I had zero fight left. And for those who know and love me, hiding away is so far from my character.

Then somewhere along the way, Sundays became a sanctuary in which I feel the most free. It's when I hear myself the loudest and know myself the deepest. The lessons I’ve learned and am still learning have allowed me stretch that freedom across every single day.

Trust me, I'll forever be a work in progress. But I'm committed to sharing who I am out loud again: my shitty (for now) dating life, my favorite nail polishes, the songs I can't stop dancing to, the movies that feel like pages ripped from my life, how I'm healing my womb to have a baby (fun!), my dreams, my insecurities — it's all going to be here. Because I'm obsessed with my life all over again, and Sundays helped me restore that feeling.