FLIMSY SUNDAYS
by Denis Taillefer

You could say that Sunday is my worst day and that Sunday is my best, and yes, this used to be family day, but now they're gone, and my ritual begins with eating at the Waffle House, listening to happy pancake music as Herb Alpert swings his trumpet and pours thick syrup onto my waffles, yet my spirit dampens when I imagine the kids smiling, sitting around the kitchen table as my wife serves breakfast, but then I concentrate on Herb's Taste Of Honey and tighten then release my left then right butt-cheek against the seat, alternating with the rhythm of Herb's beat, my hand coerced into joining in when Herb performs Tijuana Taxi and my fork's tine plays the xylophone against the waffle's ribs, but when the tune changes to the melancholic South Of The Border, I relax my rear-end and remember my wife holding a suitcase while dragging the kids out to the car, yet when Herb plays Whipped Cream, I finish my plate then continue dancing as I light a cigarette and blow thick smoke rings into Herb's vibes, then reach for the newspaper only to realize that the business section is missing, so when the music stops, I figure that today will not be so happy, until Marsha, the waitress, sits opposite me and the tape starts again and a crisp trumpet grumbles Herb's Lonely Bull and the angelic harmony floats between us when she hands me the upturned bill with her telephone number scribbled below the Come Again, the tone sinking deep until she rises and winks to Herb's Mexican Shuffle, so now I'm dancing hard, bouncing on my seat as I kiss the bill, bobbing my head from side to side when I see Rick, the cook, approaching with his own little note with his phone number scrawled and am confused, light another cigarette as Spanish Flea rips through the speakers, and when the coconut drums echo through the diner, I imagine my wife gently knock-knock-knocking on my head asking if anyone is in there, reminding me that I'm too self-absorbed and that she's had enough of my egoistic ways, so I rise to pay the bill and as I step out of the Waffle House and shut the door, I realize I've forgotten my newspaper as the muffled sounds of Never On A Sunday are finally snuffed and now I'm pretty sure that today will not be so happy.

© Denis Taillefer 2004

Denis Taillefer is an IT professional who lives in Ontario, Canada. No stranger to developing computer applications, he much prefers writing fiction and dreams of the day when he can do it full time.

on to page 15   

back to THE GSG VAULT