He wakes up to another Sunday, one more on top of the 65 or so Sundays.
All spent, alone, in between his sweat-covered sheets. The Sun pours relentlessly into his room, an unwanted intruder looking for an absent coy mistress.
He had spent the previous day strolling around the city, plodding through the cold, cemented streets. Alone. Threading a line, weaving, through the noisy crowds. The sun was out but there was no warmth.
And unwittingly, he came across a few corners of the city that smelt of the past, a cyst that he thought it was already incised from the healthy tissue. Memories returned. But they had never really left, had they? he mused to himself. That traffic light at Upper Cross Street. Where he first held her hands. The first date. First taste of love. Salty.
He clearly remembered they parted not on good terms. And he was more than happy to leave, to shake off the chains. Yet why is he reminiscing about the painful past now? He remembered them flashing with painful pride, her stubborn eyes. Everything else about her was a blur now. What is she doing? Where is she now? And more importantly, is she happy? He sure hoped so.
Time soothes over the sharp edges like a masterful carpenter. And leaves only the polished, gleaming edges. Beautiful masterpieces that he cannot recognise.