Save My Soul

Sunday Morn [4]

4.     Sunday Morn

 The next morning, I’m sitting at the table, staring into my bowl of cereal, watching the last few cheerios grow soggy in its pool of milk. I can hear the scratching pitter-patter of what must be a raccoon on the roof. I sigh, and the sound fills the silence.

I’m just about to carry my bowl to the sink when I hear the knock at the door.

Redirecting my steps, I go to the front door, still holding my bowl of soggy cheerios, and look through the peephole.

Jamie.

I feel my brow furrow and I pull back, fumbling at the doorknob. It’s locked.

“Hold on,” I say, and go to the table, grabbing the keys from the bowl.

When I return to the door, I glance again at the peephole, one part curious, one part nervous, and two parts confused. He’s all dressed up: I can see a nice shirt peeping from behind the collar of his coat, and he’s wearing proper pants, not jeans, and a nice solid black boot. I can see no friendliness in his face though. What does he want?

I unlock the door and pull it open.

“Hi,” I say after a full five seconds of silence.

“Hey.”

I’m suddenly self-conscious. I’m barefoot, clad in threadbare sweatpants and an old sweater of my mother’s. My hair hangs in tangles. I’m still holding the bowl of cereal and I can’t remember for the life of me if I’ve brushed my teeth.

“Uh… do you want something?” I say after a few more seconds of awkward silence.

“I’ve been commanded to make an official apology for my behavior last night,” Jamie says and evades my gaze, looking off towards his house, a little longingly, I might add. “It was selfish and immature of me. I’m very sorry.”

He sounds a little rushed, like he’s memorized these lines and just wants to get them out and over with as quickly as possible. I let his words hang in the air a moment, and when he’s started shifting uncomfortably, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, I say, “Are you apologizing because you’re sorry, or because you have to since your mother told you to?”

My question catches him off-guard.

“l…. Well, both, I guess.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“You know, you shouldn’t say sorry unless you mean it.”

He stares at me a minute, and then licks his lips, looking down at the pair of gloves in his hands. “You’re right.”

Another moment of awkward silence.

My bowl is feeling heavy in my hand. And I’m freezing, because the door is open, letting all the early morning air in.

“Uh… do you…” I gesture at the table behind me and he glances at it and then at me. “Do you wanna come in?”

I don’t wait for him to reply, only turn and walk quickly to the table, placing the bowl down with a clatter. When I turn, he’s taken about two steps into the house, and though he isn’t so very tall, he seems to fill the room with his presence. He’s looking all around him, at the dining room table, sparse except for the bowl with the keys and some mail, my cereal, the phone. The living room is a mess, blankets strewn about, old videos and DVDS spilling over the top of the bookshelf, a stack of framed pictures that I took down because I couldn’t stand looking at them.