My Redacted Life: Sunday Break

Sunday came and still no sight of the Redhead, the farmer's daughter. That morning, I carried a jug of wine over behind the church, sat on the "Big Rock" outcrop, watched the river flow, and listened to the Sunday morning music. Yeah, it took me back and all. When the service was over I went back to my apartment and spent most of the rest of the day on the patio reading Steinbeck and sipping wine.

I left the front window shades open in the living room and would drift in periodically and look across the parking lot. There was not much stirring. It was as if we were all observing a siesta. It would be back to work tomorrow and no time to think about women. For the first time since January 4, 1972, I didn't look forward to going to work of a  Monday morning.

My next-door neighbor, and information source, went out once to the trash bin. She was wearing white shorts and either a bikini top or a blue bra. Normally I would have ventured out to verify, but I couldn't think of anything to say to her. I felt empty, unjustified and unfulfilled.

I took out my old Gibson guitar and tried to emulated the fine picking I had heard from the church, but I couldn't concentrate. My mind kept drifting, trying to recall her face: the Redhead's face. It wouldn't stay in focus. I was almost on the verge of feeling awful. Wine didn't even help. What a pitiful excuse for a man.

What had gotten into me?

Was I under a spell, or what?