Sundays

by Evan Drake

I hate Sundays. It's just a bad luck day for me. The worst things to ever happen to me usually take place on Sundays. I was born on a Sunday, the only good thing to ever happen. I died, figuratively, on a Sunday. I was fired from my first job on a Sunday…on my day off. My first breakup was on a Sunday. All of my breakups were on Sunday. Every time I wound up going to the hospital? Sunday. I even lost my virginity on a Sunday, which would've been awesome until my grandparents walked in. Try explaining to your 80-year old gran-gran why her little biscuit is screaming like a banshee while he's hanging from the ceiling dressed up like a roast pig while some strange girl in a gold leather leotard is approaching him with a dildo, a dentist's mirror, a magnet, and an apple pie… I mean hypothetically. That never happened. Oookay, I think you get the point. I'm the unluckiest bastard to ever live.

I met my first love on a Sunday. Her name was Renée Winters, and she was a lizard girl who lived right down the street from me. She had bright green scales that reminded me of luminescent moss, bright yellow eyes like a firefly's ass, and the world's greatest smile. Now before you start with that “Aww, you and your childhood friend" nonsense, it wasn't like that. We spoke when we saw each other on the street, sometimes we played together, and maybe attended a few of each other's birthday parties. But that didn't make us friends. It also wasn't love at first sight or anything like that. I didn't fall in love until I was nineteen and I first kissed a girl. Yes, nineteen—don't judge me.

We didn't officially become friends until we were about nine or ten, and I broke my arm climbing the tree in my yard. Renée smiled at me and told me I was going to be okay. Anyone else I would've told to stuff it. Trust me, when you break something, the last thing you want to hear is “it's going to be all right." But when Renée said it, I believed her. I was distracted from my pain. She stayed by my side all the way to the hospital. Ever since then, I looked forward to Renée's smile. If I got robbed, beat up, shot, pissed on, then struck by lightning, Renée's smile would make me feel better. Yes, I know that's oddly specific. No, that never happened. Just like the thing with my grandmother was totally hypothetical.

            Back to my first kiss. It was just after our high school graduation. Renée ran over to congratulate me on graduating with honors or something. She tripped, or I think she tripped, and her lips landed smack on mine. Yeah, I know, it sounds like something ripped out of a bad romantic comedy, but I swear that's what happened. Anyway, we're both standing there, lips locked, my arms wrapped around her from when I caught her to stop her from “falling." She was covered in scales, but she was much softer than I imagined. She also felt very cool. Maybe that was a lizard thing. My eyes were wide open, but Renée's were closed. I couldn't move or I didn't want to move—I don't know which. It felt nice. Her body pressed against mine, the feel of her soft lips.

After about a full minute of touching faces, we broke apart. Renée gives me this hurried apology of how sorry she was with a huge smile on her face the entire time. I was nineteen, so of course, all I could think about was her smiling after kissing me. My friend Julian says Renée tripped on purpose. He teased me about it for a month, saying the first time we have sex will be because she “tripped" and fell on me.

            Regardless, after the “accidental" kiss, Renée and I didn't just suddenly realize we were right for each other and start dating and get married and have kids and live happily ever after. I just mumbled “Don't worry about it," and we went our separate ways. Oh, I forgot to mention I had a girlfriend at the time, and when she found out about the kiss, she dumped me (on Sunday of course). Over an accidental kiss. I could understand if I did it on purpose, but Renée fell onto me. I was practically assaulted. Granted, I didn't try to stop her, and I liked it, but my girlfriend didn't know that.

            Ever since that kiss, I couldn't stop thinking about Renée and her soft body and warm smile. Sometimes I dream about her (not those kinds of dreams!). She would hold me and smile and tell me everything was going to be okay. Every time she said it, I believed her. It got me through all the hard times: the breakups, the funerals, the fights, and the random bad days. Even when I was with other girls, Renée was at the front of my mind. I wish I had gotten her phone number when I had the chance. Maybe things would've been different.

I stal—followed her on social media. Sometimes I would look at the pictures she posted on Instagram and pretend I was there with her. At one point I wanted to take those pictures and photoshop myself into them, but I didn't because the idea creeped me out.

            So at this point, it seemed obvious to tell her how I feel. But it was never that easy. For starters, we never kept in touch, so I couldn't just walk up to her and say “I like you. Will you go out with me?" And the phone worked both ways. Why didn't she call me? She was bold enough to kiss me once, so why not try to go further? Why didn't she announce her feelings then? The answer was simple: I don't know. I'll never know.

            Now back my horrendous luck. I graduated high school with honors, but I barely scrapped a C-average in college. When I graduated college, I couldn't hold down a job. Apparently, I had a problem with authority. Since when does telling your boss he's a useless drunk on his third failed marriage with worthless kids who were going to grow up spoiled dickbags translate into having problems with authority? Don't answer that.

            Basically, my life sucked. I had no money, constantly moving from job to job, was stuck staying with my pothead friend Julian, we were constantly behind on the rent, and my best Saturday night was sitting alone watching reruns of Law and Order.

            I needed money, bad. Our slumlord was threatening to throw us out on the street. So I came up with the stupid idea of mugging people. It was either that or sleep with our slumlord. She was sixty-two, looked like she was eighty, and had BO. I'd rather risk the jail time. I took the revolver Julian kept for protection. Ironically, he bought it because this was a dangerous neighborhood, and we wanted to stop ourselves from being robbed.

Before I move forward, I want to be clear that I had no intention of hurting anyone. The gun was only to scare people. I couldn't just walk up to people and say “Gimme your wallet" without something to persuade them.

            My first—and last—victims were this couple who I assumed were coming home from the crappy movie theater down the street. I approached them from behind, pointed the revolver at them, and said in my batman voice, “Gimme your money and don't try anything stupid!" They turned around, and I saw the girl was Renée. I tried to play it cool, pretend I had no idea who she was. But then she said, “Charlie?" and I knew she recognized me. Should've worn a mask.

            Her saying my name completely caught me off guard. I can't even begin to describe the mixture of overwhelming guilt and happiness I felt hearing Renée say my name.

            Her boyfriend didn't share Renée's familiarity. He grabbed for the gun and I knew it wouldn't end well if he took it. We struggled. Renée screamed for us to stop it and tried to separate us. The gun went off. I felt like I was going deaf. It was nothing like those shootout scenes in moves. checked myself for bullet holes. I was clean. Renée's boyfriend was clean, too. Like a scene out of a movie, we turned and saw a hole in Renée's chest. She looked at me, flashed her it's-going-to-be-okay smile, and fell to the ground.

            Renée Winters was twenty-seven years old when she died en route to the hospital, June 19.

A Sunday.

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