Doesn’t Saturday seem like a Tuesday, somehow, these
days?
Hasn’t Tuesday acquired a bit of that Saturday bliss
and haze?
Saturday did it: bull-dozed into Tuesday a week
ago, took on
its twenty-four hours, shoved Tuesday into its
old central place:
that prison of weekend space that Saturday hates,
and vacated.
Saturday simply refused, as the rest of the
week’s days would
later relate, to remain where it was any longer.
“I can’t take
the pressure of being the favorite day of the
week – pretending
I’m stronger and happier, saucier, sappier,
sweeter, more cheerful
than all of the other week’s days whose position,
effectively barring
the way to the prospect of perfect contentment
and leisure for which
I am speciously known – pretending I’d always
be able to flatten,
condone or inflate or conform to their pleasure
and beckon them
into a warm embrace, make the case that
whatever they wanted
I had, that they never again need be sad, that
as long as there
dawned a new Saturday morn they’d be glad they
were born.
I needed a break. Couldn’t keep telling that
lie. Friday and Sunday?
I bid you goodbye.” So if Tuesday and Saturday
seem to be strange –
the former a touch more enlivening, the latter
more worn
and withdrawn – well, now you know why. They’re
both getting by.
Tuesday is doing the weekend okay – dispenses
an adequate bliss.
Saturday (wedged between Monday and Wednesday
pretending
it’s Tuesday) has just now begun to relax and become
the one day
to take off we from time to time seek illegitimately:
peek out, do
something amiss. Take an al
fresco piss. Find lips, sneak a kiss.
.
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