The foggy morning that started the day gave way to pale metal sky, which pushed the day towards the inevitable sadness of a Sunday afternoon. Towards the afternoon when they finally had to meet. And they did meet. But why did they meet being universes apart, having to bridge the differences spanning lifetimes, latitudes, and linguistics? thought the sea when thinking its sea thoughts  and looking out from its depths onto the world.  Do they know it’s me – water that rules the world – that has pulled them together? —

She stopped the bus, the driver smiled and pressed onto the gas pedal trying to take advantage of the empty Sunday morning streets. All the excitement arising from expectation of a meeting that’s been postponed and put off for months has grown into a huge bubble of joy. E. got to the upper deck of the bus, swaying from the weight of the bubble looking for two empty seats to have enough place for her and her joyful expectations. —

Sunday was always a hard day, but more so after a few hours of sleep only. J. opened his eyes – the day already there – grey and quiet, teasing him out of bed to catch up with it. There were messages on his phone, emails on computer, breakfast at lunch time and one hour ride on the tube to Leicestersquare.  He read E’s scribbles on his way; they made him feel like he could move on from the dead end in writing his play. Exciting – the feeling of a thought, idea starting to germinate, but not taking any shape yet, it’s the time when the possibilities are endless, when the particularities and specifics aren’t there yet to tire you. It’s the best feeling a writer can have, thought J.  Leicestersquare station, J. folded the papers, curled his fat lips into a half smile and stepped off the tube. Out there he finally saw her: a big guy himself towering above the crowd, he thought there was something big and inflated about E as well. He embraced her. —

The Bubble couldn’t contain itself anymore and burst. –-

The hug was all enveloping: E. couldn’t understand which side of the hug she was. —

Ignited by the chaos of the crowd and flickering images J. came alive – he started talking fast like there was no time left. E. tried to keep up with him – with the dashing man in a hat and curled eyelashes that framed his big beautiful eyes.

Tell me how do you say: Jerry is amazing!

Džeris yra nuostabus!

Again? And louder.

Džeris yra nuostabus!

— J. kept mispronouncing my name, but I was too slow to correct him.  He was trying to pin down my accent, the origins of my “talent”.  My origins of quietude and quicksand beaches stayed hidden scared off by the noise and brightness of London streets. I wasn’t giving away my dark side either. Because my dark side is big and full of dark water from the depths of the ocean (and who knows maybe J. can’t swim) it’s so spacious that it houses a whale. This whale in me makes me slow and cumbersome.  It doesn’t let me correct J. how to pronounce my name. It doesn’t let me say much. But we talk.  J. mentions whales, marvelling at their size, measuring them with elephants and dinosaurs. And I know it’s not him speaking – it’s the sea reminding me of my dark side, trying to reach me, testing its limits, how far inland it can go – it can go all the way to Leicestersquare. —

— I was grabbing onto the last pieces of Sunday, wishing it wouldn’t move so fast and turn into an inevitable unwanted Monday. We kept walking the streets.  E. turned towards the British museum to show me its glass roof. She and her funny accent couldn’t believe I had never been there. What is it with this girl? She couldn’t conceive how different my world was.  A writer should know better than that! The glass roof of the museum was impressive and depressing. It made the sound of the feet of hundreds of people and of their voices – the residue of their existence – rise high up, crash into the glass, and fall down all over us, little pins of broken sound going through our shells, popping our atoms and sending our protons and neutrons into a chaotic movement. I started feeling tired – it’s time to take you to the bus, I say. Sunday will turn to Monday soon, – I think and start wanting something. Something E. can’t give me.

–There was a sadness that came in between us, it descended from the glass roof, it came down with the muffled sound of the feet and voices of hundreds of people around us – with the residue of their existences – falling all over us, pricking our atoms, freeing the little neutrons from their orderly orbits leaving them in chaos. –It’s time to take you to the bus, – J. says. Great, – I think collecting my neutrons as they are seeping out of me, leaving me empty.  Making me want to just curl up on the sofa in a cuddle. To be covered by an extra shell that would block the shadow cast by an ending Sunday, that would keep my atoms intact without any words, thoughts, just an even breathing. –

by E.S.

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