The Wrong Day of the Week

The snow turns to rain. Side slanting, leak into your boots, plaster your hair to your face, turn your thighs red, cold cold rain.

I skate to work cursing, spend the first 5 minutes wringing my pants over the sink and the next hour holding a space heater above my legs.

It should have been a Monday, because this isn’t usually how Thursdays go.

At lunch I do my laundry and carry it folded in a sack on my arm.

Sometimes, the week is timid and yielding to my touch. Sometimes I can take time and warm it like clay between my palms. Shape it. The way you might edit a story the first time you tell it; erasing words even as they spill from your lips.

Sometimes the week is a stranger that just up and slaps you in the face.

Stinging tears and angry cheeks. Irrational.

I move my stuff in piece by piece and the apartment begins to feel more like my own. Except, I do the dishes right away and I straighten the towel in the bathroom after drying my hands. I tidy for an audience and when I lay my head down at night and close my eyes I half-expect applause.

It’s okay if you leave, just lock the door behind you.




2 thoughts on “The Wrong Day of the Week”

  1. On 99.9999% of blogs (including my own) a bad day like that would turn into a b****-fest. Somehow you turned freezing rain and an awful Thursday into something elegant and interesting to read. Way to channel that frustration.

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