Sam’s Journal of Survival

Sunday Errands

011126 This journal is fiction. The voice you’re reading is a character, not the author.
Sunday is errands.

It’s Sunday.

I go early if I can. Fewer people. Fewer variables. I make a list and stick to it. Groceries for the week. The pharmacy if I need anything. Everything else I order online. There’s no reason to wander.

I live near Five Points in Falls Church. There’s a strip mall close by that has everything I need for this kind of day. It’s familiar. I know the layout. I know where I park. I know which entrance I use and which one I avoid.

I tell myself that this is just being efficient.

Before I leave, I check my purse. Phone. Keys. Wallet. I check them in the same order every time. I lock the door and test it once, then again. I pause before walking to the car, listening. Nothing unusual.

The drive itself is uneventful. I stay aware anyway. I watch my mirrors. I notice who pulls in behind me at lights. I remind myself that most people are just going about their day.

Most people.

At the grocery store, I move quickly. I don’t linger in aisles. I keep my cart close. I notice who’s around me without making it obvious. I’ve learned how to look casual while paying attention.

The pharmacy takes longer. There’s always a line. I don’t like standing still with people behind me. I shift my weight. I glance over my shoulder and then feel foolish for doing it. I remind myself that this is normal. This is what people do on Sundays.

When I’m finished, I load the car and lock the doors before I put the cart away.

I stop for gas on the way home if the tank is low. I choose stations that are visible from the road. I never leave the car unlocked. If it needs it, I’ll do the drive-through car wash. I like staying inside the car. The water is loud, but it’s predictable.

The cleaners are closed on Sundays, so that waits for another day. That’s usually when I allow myself something extra, like drive-through food on the way home. It feels like a small reward for getting through the week.

I eat it in the car sometimes, parked in my driveway, before I go inside.

I don’t work late anymore. I don’t like parking garages after dark. Or parking lots. Or walking alone when it’s quiet and empty. I tell myself it’s common sense. Practical. Risk management.

All of this looks like a simple life from the outside. Organized. Planned. Responsible.

What it doesn’t feel like is freedom.

Everything I do is measured. Considered. Approved by an invisible set of rules I didn’t consciously write but follow anyway. I move through the world, but I don’t relax in it.

By the time I’m home, the relief sets in. I unload the groceries. I lock the door. I put things away in their places.

The day is done.

Nothing bad happened.

And still, I feel tired in a way that sleep doesn’t seem to fix.