Frans Peter Verheyen
sunday morning
Ideally, the splendid idleness of a Sunday morning is virtually indistinguishable from Sunday afternoon. The one blurs cozily into the other in a gentle haze of buttered muffins. Time is measured by the stirring of cream into coffee, by the shuffling of sections of newspaper, by the muted scribbling of pen on the crossword. Life feels like a barely-audible echo of an old song written on a rainy day by Paul Simon.
On Sunday mornings indolence is no sin; it’s just a nine-letter word meaning “are you done with the arts section and please pass the cream.”
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