It was Sunday

It was Sunday.

One of those indeterminate times between late afternoon and just about evening when the winter sun decides to go surreal. It filtered in slanting golden through foliage and concrete and lit up everything in sepia glow like a Grace Kelly movie.

So from the balcony I was sitting on…everything moved in this afterglow-flush in suspended animation. A cyclist creaked past and someone made their way across the road and disappeared into a school building. Nothing else moved. Then a couple of kids ran down the footpath tripping over each other. Nothing much else happened.

It was like the city had holed itself up and gone to sleep ... and in that rare moment of respite everything slowed down and breathed.

So I was watching the scene ... sentence hanging mid page of Catcher in the Rye the hundredth time over– and suddenly... it was Perfect. Like a Dave Mathews song or like comic timing.
The whole damn thing was Just Right - for no fathomable reason.

Just then some idiot honked loudly... as if by cue the traffic picked up, the sun started to fade and I remembered I had to be somewhere else. The quiet blurred out of focus … and the moment crumbled – it was over just as it happened.

I guess that’s what’s killing about it - Perfection is insignificant.