Will found himself, on Sunday night, left to his own devices. Winona has been away for three days and wouldn’t be back for two more. It was raining. He could smell the neighbors’ dinner, spaghetti bolognaise. His phone was silent. The possibilities of the Internet were exhausted. Loneliness seeped under the doors with the cold draft.
Briefly, he considers that this is what Sunday must be like for all the singletons in the city. The loneliest night, without the distractions of yoga class or professional meet-ups. Knowing that all your married friends are having their Sunday roasts.
Fending off further introspection, Will texted Ulrika. Hey mate, what’s up? Busy?
There’s enough of a delay that he goes and rummages around in the kitchen cupboards. Just as he’s pouring hot water over a brick of Korean beef noodles, her reply comes. Got a date! Talk tomorrow.
A date? On a Sunday? With whom? Sunday night – whoever it is, it’s serious.
go Ulrike! chin up, Will.