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Sundays have always been the worst for her.
It’s not altogether surprising, Gigi supposes as she sips her long-cold tea and stares out her window. San Francisco greets her with it’s usual crowded chrome-on-stucco view, not any different than last Sunday—or really any of the other weekday mornings.
Sometimes she wondered why she and William loved living in this city so much. Like packing far more sardines into one tin than that tin could ever possibly fit—crowded as a pantry of soup cans in the middle of a Lodi heat-wave, her mother mentioned once. None of the Darcy’s were claustrophobia, or they hadn’t been. But William wasn’t exactly the type to willingly stick himself in small places without room enough to even think. Hence the hatred of parties.
The sky pinkened more as the sun well and truly began rising, cutting through the grey fog settled around the sleepy Bay. The pale rose of the sky looked beautiful in the rippling waters of the pool, visible from her window.
She sipped her tea again, not even grimacing at the bitter taste. The honey had settled at the bottom again. She swirled it gently, trying to make the two mesh again.
This hadn’t always been her window, of course; really, she tended to spend more time at the old Victorian house her parents had owned before the accident, the one that was now her’s and William’s. San Francisco had been closer to a childhood home for her than L.A. ever had been—probably because she did most of her growing up in the house here than there, all the bad with the good. The faded yellow of the kitchen still smelled like coffee and Dove soap, if she closed her eyes and paid enough attention to catch it. The end of the couch nearest the back door window was still the warmest seat, long used to soaking in late afternoon sunshine. The rug still had a slight scorch mark from where she’d knocked over a candle and almost caught the whole thing on fire.
But she could never quite bring herself to wake up there on Sunday mornings, not in air that was always musty, too, on those days, with painful memories and the sorely sought could-have-beens that never came to fruition.
The chlorine always seemed to permeate the house on those days, too, oddly enough.
Heating the water more would probably make the green tea and honey more miscible. It just seemed like too much effort on these mornings. Like more flame would imply she actually cared about or for the day itself. Stupid, but true—practically her life motto.
It was funny, too, ‘cause they didn’t even have a pool anymore. Not there. It’d been drained, turned into a garden of marigold and rhododendron and Anne’s lace and more. All of her favorites, and her mother’s favorites, and Williams.
If she stared at a yellow pansy enough, she could turn it to the gold of someone’s sun-bleached hair. The delicate petals of blue freesia would become eyes—first soft as the flower, then rapidly, always rapidly, a harsh sharpness, more flint than flora. If she listened long enough, the buzzing of bees and the miniscule clicking of ladybug wings would resolve into a voice.
“Hey there, pretty girl. You ready for some warm-up morning laps?”
The sun through the leaves of the evergreen trees, dappled and dancing on the green-green grass on good, shining San Francisco days looked too much like sun on water. The stone benches were too close to pale concrete, the gentle sway of leaves and flowers in the wind too much like water flowing through fingers that could cup into powerful strokes or caress with the same power, turned to gentleness, to a caress soft as willow leaves.
She hates that garden.
Making life in a place where it isn’t automatic is a bit of a theme for San Francisco, Gigi muses. Almost as if the world is giving a challenge and the occupants of the too-small space are rising to it every morning out of spite and slighted dignity. Forcing the issue.
Porcelain on wood echoes in the hollow, grey semi-darkness as she sets the mug down on the window sill. Orangey-pink fingers of the sunrise are reaching into the condo now, trying to mesh with the slate calm of the room. She should get ready. Face the day.
The tea was a lost cause anyway.
Gigi always felt so damn metaphorical on Sundays. It never failed to tire her out before her day had even begun. It was like being back in high school, talking about how Her eyes were stars, shining with a light that could extinguish at any moment with scarce few to realize its absence; or it was about His smile, warm as a knitted sweater and as comforting as the grandmother that made it. Hair like silk, a waterfall of tears, unfathomable thoughts that could not be formed into any semblance of clarity like stars unmakeable into constellations.
Some Sundays, she can’t tell where the metaphors stop and she begins.
Or ends, she supposes.
They’re rather the same, but...
Well.
Gigi Darcy has always rather been a fan of beginnings.