The Pyle Inside

Saturdays. Always waking up at noon. Eating easy-mac for lunch. The soft cheese melting on my tongue. A sip of water. More easy-mac. I stuff myself on Saturdays, making up for the crappy cafeteria food I eat five days a week. I plop on the couch and turn on HBO. Movies. Horror movies. Children’s movies. Romantic movies. I don’t care what kind of movie it is. Perhaps it’s one I’ve seen before. Perhaps it’s one I’ve never heard of. I watch one or two. Or three, maybe. After those movies, my eyes hurt. Reading won’t help. But I read anyway. Pages and more pages. Then, I go outside. There’s usually a cool, calm breeze. The sun is just setting. Tiny bursts of pink, orange, and yellow fill the sky as it subtly changes from periwinkle to navy. I go inside and make myself dinner. I’m no chef, I can only make easy-mac and water. On Saturdays, I order pizza. Half an hour later I’m on the couch, watching another movie on HBO, and chewing pizza. And then, I find myself crying. The person I used to spend all my Saturdays with is…gone. Whenever I try to forget, I can’t. I used to do so much more on Saturdays when he was around. Now all that’s left is his glasses, sitting on the nightstand by my bed. The movie finishes, and so does the day. Tired, I crawl into bed. I take my glasses off, and put them right next to his. Together.