The quiet part of Sunday

Yesterday was the kind of Sunday I usually say I want. No reservations, nowhere to be, and enough food in the kitchen that I didn’t have to leave unless I felt like it. I put fresh sheets on the bed and started reading on the sofa.

For the first hour, it was lovely. By the afternoon, I’d checked my phone more often than I’d turned a page. I wasn’t waiting for anything in particular. I think I just wanted somebody to interrupt the quiet.

That’s the part I don’t always know how to explain. I like living on my own. I like choosing the music and leaving a book open where I’ll find it later. But sometimes I miss having someone around to say an entirely unimportant thing to. Not a big conversation. Just, “Taste this,” while I’m making dinner.

I called a friend while I cooked. We talked about her week, and I admitted mine had felt a little lonely in places. She didn’t try to solve it. We stayed on the phone until I was sitting down to eat.

The evening was still quiet afterward, but it didn’t feel quite so empty. I finished a few pages before bed. The rest can wait; apparently yesterday wasn’t really about getting through the book.

— Isabella