You knew an instant of pain or joy or love or desire and you were never the same again because the darkness inside yourself had known so much brief illumination. And at the end of it all, what? A gentle discernment, a manner of soft speech and belief, belief...

The joys of Sunday seemed far away now. The licit sounds of happiness had slid past her. She had loved Domingo Gorrez with everything that she had been but they had been careless, and one paid for carelessness like this --- sipping coffee in exile, vulnerable and tremulous, because, in this wayward inn, someone had said a warm and tender thing.

-----"The Sounds of Sunday", Kerima Polotan-Tuvera