Weekday People


Monday was the girl that started talking before you even opened your eyes. She had a siren, not a voice, and didn’t stop to breathe as much as she gulped air between elaborate ramblings. Sitting with her felt like an 18-inning baseball game that you knew was going to get called and pick up the next day. You couldn’t even look forward to her leaving the room because you knew she would come back. She always came back, even if you cursed her to high hell.

Her taste in clothes was loud and tacky, all either unflatteringly too tight or comically too large. She was always hours early, even if you weren’t there — she started without you, however that’s possible. She found ways. Without fail, she would step on your toes, bump you with her elbows, drop a hot bowl of soup on your lap, every time she saw you. Her clumsiness never affected her, only you. She’d just smile, impervious to the way she made everyone around her feel. She was equally perfect in bliss and ignorance. The only good thing about her is that if for some reason she didn’t show up, the day seemed more pleasant than any of her friends — well, except for Friday and Saturday.


I’d known Tuesday for years. He was unassuming and generally pleasant to be around, especially if Monday had just left the room. Even as you’d sit there with him, talking, eating, laughing, you’d barely remember it a few days later. He was barely noticeable, though in no way due to unpleasantness or pleasantness. He just…was. In fact, even if there was more to him, no one could get to the bottom of it, because as quickly as he showed up was as quickly as he’d leave. 

Wednesday was a horrible person. Not because she was poor company, but because she was so tempting. I’d dated Wednesday for years and now every time I’d see her, those feelings and urges came forward. The urge to let loose and forget about my lunch date with Thursday. To cut loose and run behind the tennis courts for a quick fuck, since Saturday was taking forever to show up. 
 Wednesday had long, wild and wavy hair, wore sundresses with no bra or panties and smiled so big it took up her whole face. She was almost impossible to turn down. If you accepted, you would regret it for sure, but not right then. Right then, in that moment, you were perfect because she was perfect. But you’d always wake up with regrets, because she couldn’t make a commitment. Your bed was empty, not even a note — just the smell of her on you and another memory that would lead to bad choices the next time she came around. If by some chance you did turn her down, time came to a halt. She’d get very quiet and just sit there, watching you catch up on work or waste your life on the couch watching the game. Before your lids met in the middle, she’d sneak out the door. An hour later, she’d text you a pic of her tits.


Thursday was far too jittery for my tastes. He knew something good was coming and he kept secrets like rich kids kept their virginity. Unlike his brother Tuesday, you’ll always notice Thursday. He was a distraction, the worst to have around when you needed to get shit done. His watch beeped, his phone rang, his sneakers squeaked. Combine him with a visit from Wednesday the night before and the despair feels like Monday might come pop her head in. Thankfully, she never does (I’ve never seen her and Thursday in a room together — I think they hooked up once).

But Thursday is so much more. He shows you dick pics and laughs with a snort when you slap the phone away. It’s pierced, his dick, not the phone. He’s good at pool and he always looks like he’s ready to hustle someone, you if you’re not careful. He’s the type of guy that would slip you heroin and tell you it’s coke. He’s good for going out when nobody else wants to go out, but that’s it. Sometimes I think nobody else wants to go out just because he’s there. His hat smells like pig sweat and he’s obnoxious. He was a fat kid, and now he’s skinny. The only good thing about him is that he’s always in a rush to go somewhere, anywhere. He knows people don’t like him, and he thinks that’s his thing. Fucking prick.


Friday is stunning. I wound up at her place after Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday all had it with me and dumped me on her doorstep, and by the end of the night, it was just her and me. She lives right where Hell’s Kitchen turns into midtown, up on the 14th floor. She dances so awkwardly it makes your heart hurt, not feeling sorry for her, rather horrible in the sense that you’ll never be that effortlessly perfect. You’ll never have her for yourself. The closest to perfect you’ll ever be is sitting there, with a stupid grin on your face and hard-on in your pants, watching her, watching you. 
 She toys with your life, not because she’s spiteful, but because you don’t want her to go. Ever. You wish she was every person, every day. And tomorrow when you wake up, you’ll feel even worse. Luckily, Saturday comes around then, but you don’t think of that. You don’t think of anything except wrapping your arms around Friday’s back, feeling her shoulder blades move in your hands. Sliding down around her hips and pulling her close to you, breathing on each other, tongues from chest to chin, lapping soft necks and harder nipples. Hair tangles catch your earrings, teeth bite your lip ring, nails rip under your shirt and you fall on the bed, an angel in your arms, no one else existed ever, and then you don’t remember a thing.

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