The Sinful Sunday

Sunday supposedly is God’s Day anywhere else in the world, but Sunday in London represents something more. Shops are open wide and lively crammed with equally excited shoppers. Along with all the ups and downs of the week, this Sunday of mine was filled with enlivening events.
Despite being forced to wake up with a humming head at 8 in the morning to witness again another Nicky Hayden failed attempt to gain podium position, my Sunday didn’t end the messy disorganized way that it started. As I was starring at the little light box that was my television in hope that Hayden will somehow make it this time, the person that is the source of my problem rang the door. We watched the race until the last comment folded, though as an American he knows almost nothing of the way things work.
Then, we head of to Hyde Park for a walk. Showed him the Albert Memorial, in effort to be a good host. I mean, what’s visiting London if you haven’t seen the Memorial? (He had seen it though when he spent his early teens here, so I was just putting up excuses to walk those favourite steps of mine in Hyde Park). Hyde Park was a green Gem on earth, and a calming place to be in. Despite whatever people might say about it, I sill think that it’s one of my favourite places in London. The person on my side fits perfectly to the whole atmosphere as if they were created simultaneously to complement each other. People were actually looking at us, and I could sense an exhilarating exclusive feeling through their envious glare. As strange and cheesy as it may sounds, but at that point what I felt was almost fitted to the explanation clarifying about the early stages of infatuation. We talked and had very nice series of conversation before finally shifting the direction to Knightsbridge in the need of having something to munch.
Despite appearances, walking along Knightsbridge had never been so fashionably flustering before. Although the fear of having people recognize us was there, the distraught haunt was diminishing along with the furthering of our synchronized steps. My whole social life (and probably my already established relationship with Lee) was burdened in the hands of my dark sunglasses, the unusually-me ponytail, and the constant chin burying in the high collars of my jacket. Secrecy has turned itself to a slim and stylish monster with Marc Jacobs jacket, fabulous Jimmy Choo pumps and too much power held upon me of all the envy I had placed on its existence. Paul was the side product as well as the object, and I was crushed in the allure of this Vodka-Pina Colada-Strawbery-Tequila Sunrise-Caubernet Sauvignon feel to this. I know I should pull myself out before I the shinny bubbly liquid returns me stoned, but once my foot is in, the rest of the downfall surrenders like it’s meant to be.
We had lunch in Piccadilly, in a place I thought was subtle and hidden enough behind the hefty streets (and the potential of being caught by people we know). Hidden, was something I seem to cannot do to myself that day. A friend greeted me, a Singer known for his straight A’s and stylishly ambitious rage. He doesn’t play close encounter with Lee, but any slip to the game can place the bullet my way. Paul was introduced as a friend; despite him looking like he’s getting sick of being introduced that way, and the suspicious look I get from every corner of the six senses. I know that even at that point the case was closed and buried away from civilization, but there was a certain releasing sensation in risking it all in the kind words and thoughts of a person I know. Luckily the person didn’t stay that long to make any conversation matter.
Dinner was at Le Metro, continued with a night out at Bondai. My senses were coming close to crawling my way to the club, but Paul was there to lift me up. By the time I knew it we were dancing, and it the clock was stating somewhere near to one when we entered my apartment.