The sun was high in the sky after it felt
silently in itself that the light it had brimmed out, till the current phase of
the day, suffice to dry the wet, probably watered and muddy, land—streets—
which were soaked by the last night rain that poured outrageously and almost
non-stoppedly. Luckily, for some, as they might have reasoned to themselves,
there were sunlight, for this Sunday, to dry out—or, dehydrate—their washed and
draped cloth. This self-imposed reason propelled them to get up from their bed,
leaving behind the laziness inside their body that weaken their mind, to collect
their cloth which had been worn, and stained with sweat and smells, throughout
their weekdays and bring them, for another week, to laundry—a task which some
eased with a clothing-washing machine and which some others had to complete
using their mere hands and wooden-covered brush—and with, specifically for some
others, thin plastic gloves.
The reason, despite its logicality, didn’t
make it ways into Visoth’s head whose body and mind were still peacefully
resting, in his messy bedroom, on his dust-filled bed where, atop, a few Sandra
Brown’s novels—The Crush, Smoke Screen, Fat Tuesday—were flaunting tirelessly
for a gentle clutch and an ardent read. Above-naked as the reeking striped
blanket had been rolled away to a corner of the bed, Visoth, who was as
frivolous as other aimless grown-ups, was still harboring a cute peaceful
slumber till this sun-high-on-the-sky time on a Sunday—a kind of slumber which
most teenager-turn-adults, like Visoth, would enjoyed and be proud of.
