Tomorrow, maybe she’d go to the farmers’ market. Maybe she’d stay in bed until noon. Maybe she’d do nothing at all.
Later, she danced alone in the kitchen while chopping mangoes for a salsa. Not a real dance. A weekend dance: hips swaying, eyes half-closed, wooden spoon as a microphone. When the music shifted to something softer, she leaned against the counter, running a hand through her hair, watching the sunset paint the walls pink and amber. 21Naturals - Sherill Collins - Weekend Vibes
She poured a glass of natural wine, stepped back onto the balcony, and let the evening wrap around her like a secret. The city hummed below. Somewhere, a siren. Somewhere else, laughter. But here, in this golden bubble, there was only Sherrill—untethered, unhurried, unapologetically soft. Tomorrow, maybe she’d go to the farmers’ market
She changed into her softest cotton shorts and an oversized linen shirt, left unbuttoned just enough to feel the air on her collarbone. No makeup. Hair in a loose, messy bun. The afternoon sun slanted golden across the wood floors, and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel like a CEO, a daughter, a planner. She just felt like Sherrill . Later, she danced alone in the kitchen while
Sherrill read it twice. The old her would have overthought a reply, crafted the perfect balance of cool and interested. The weekend-vibes Sherrill? She locked the phone, tossed it onto the couch cushion, and turned the music up.
The last email dinged into Sherrill Collins’s phone at 5:47 p.m. on Friday. She didn’t even open it. She just turned the device face-down on her marble counter, poured the last of the cold brew into a glass with ice, and let out a long, slow breath she felt like she’d been holding since Tuesday.
Sherrill smiled, sliding open the balcony door. A warm breeze curled into the living room, rustling the monstera leaves. She’d planned this. No alarms. No emails. Just 48 hours of her time.