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Description
Sunday Evening: A short prose fiction concerning one man's opinion of the days of the week.

Written by Noah Vir D'Vigil. Dedicated to the voices in his head.

   Durante Blake hated Sundays. He realized that most people appreciated Sundays. Some even held it sacred, a holy day, a day of rest. Frankly, he didn't care. He compared Sunday to not being able to find any cigarettes, or the inescapably frustrating feeling of anxiety one gets before they, say, jump off a very tall building. The jump itself is, of course, Monday.
   He had other little analogies for the days of the week, too. Tuesday was like the rather awful aftertaste one gets after eating something in a considerable state of decomposition the night before. Wednesday reminded him of the long, slow summers he'd spent as a child, killing crickets to pass his time. Thursday was an enormous relief, because it was in the middle of the week and was therefore the farthest possible distance from Monday. Saturday smelt of sex and booze, mainly because that's what it often entailed.
   As it were, he was walking down 8th Avenue at eleven o'clock on a Sunday evening, cigarette dangling idly from his coarse lips, rain plastering his dark messy hair to his scalp. He was by no means an unattractive man; with a nice cleaning up and a serious attitude adjustment, he could have been quite the catch. But even at thirty years young, a lifetime of bad habits meant the man was already beginning to feel age in his bones, and show it in his wrinkles. From his face grew a forest of stubble, and heavy black bags hung from under his eyes (for Durante was a man who believed that life is too short to waste on such trivialities as sleep). There was an old scar, running from just under his left eye to just above the corner of his mouth, but if you were to ask him about it, his most likely response would have been to tell you to piss off and mind your own business. Despite being named after two poets, it was fairly clear from the outset that Durante had no way with words.
   The man could appreciate rain, though; he enjoyed the feeling of the droplets against his skin, the cool of wet clothes, the soft pitter-patter as water hit asphalt. It brought to him peace, and a clarity of mind which he hadn't had since his sober days. And, more importantly, rain had an uncanny way of unclogging the streets, both in the gutters and on the sidewalk. It's not that he didn't like crowds; moreover just the people in them. Rain, he concluded as he walked, was a very agreeable thing. But as much as he savoured the light drizzle, what he savoured even more was getting out of it and getting bloody drunk; and, having finally reached his destination, he did exactly that.

Description
Sunday Evening: A short prose fiction concerning one man's opinion of the days of the week.

Written by Noah Vir D'Vigil. Dedicated to the voices in his head.

   Durante Blake hated Sundays. He realized that most people appreciated Sundays. Some even held it sacred, a holy day, a day of rest. Frankly, he didn't care. He compared Sunday to not being able to find any cigarettes, or the inescapably frustrating feeling of anxiety one gets before they, say, jump off a very tall building. The jump itself is, of course, Monday.
   He had other little analogies for the days of the week, too. Tuesday was like the rather awful aftertaste one gets after eating something in a considerable state of decomposition the night before. Wednesday reminded him of the long, slow summers he'd spent as a child, killing crickets to pass his time. Thursday was an enormous relief, because it was in the middle of the week and was therefore the farthest possible distance from Monday. Saturday smelt of sex and booze, mainly because that's what it often entailed.
   As it were, he was walking down 8th Avenue at eleven o'clock on a Sunday evening, cigarette dangling idly from his coarse lips, rain plastering his dark messy hair to his scalp. He was by no means an unattractive man; with a nice cleaning up and a serious attitude adjustment, he could have been quite the catch. But even at thirty years young, a lifetime of bad habits meant the man was already beginning to feel age in his bones, and show it in his wrinkles. From his face grew a forest of stubble, and heavy black bags hung from under his eyes (for Durante was a man who believed that life is too short to waste on such trivialities as sleep). There was an old scar, running from just under his left eye to just above the corner of his mouth, but if you were to ask him about it, his most likely response would have been to tell you to piss off and mind your own business. Despite being named after two poets, it was fairly clear from the outset that Durante had no way with words.
   The man could appreciate rain, though; he enjoyed the feeling of the droplets against his skin, the cool of wet clothes, the soft pitter-patter as water hit asphalt. It brought to him peace, and a clarity of mind which he hadn't had since his sober days. And, more importantly, rain had an uncanny way of unclogging the streets, both in the gutters and on the sidewalk. It's not that he didn't like crowds; moreover just the people in them. Rain, he concluded as he walked, was a very agreeable thing. But as much as he savoured the light drizzle, what he savoured even more was getting out of it and getting bloody drunk; and, having finally reached his destination, he did exactly that.