Yesterday, I would have finished my day at midnight,
it would have been a tireless day as it always was on Tuesday.
I would walk through the front red double doors, nod at the passerby,
and then retreat into the hole of my office until I could not hide away any longer.
Before I stepped back out into that red and white linoleum universe,
my hand would tremble on the door handle as I breathed in deep before the first plunge.
Today, I would soak in however many minutes I could steal away,
before bedtime came knocking at my door,
and the dread of another day hung above me, ever so cryptic.
I would join a friend for lunch,
or run through a list of errands,
or do a whole lot of nothing for hours and hours.
Today would be the day to spend however I saw fit,
though it always came and went too quickly for my taste.
But you take what you are given,
most especially after you learn you are not given very much to start with.
It has been nearly a year since I have had today off again.
I am buried beneath the softness of my comforters and pillows,
and I cannot help but ponder the mundane significance of this day in the middle of the week,
of the melodramatic choices I have made,
all to please everyone but myself.
Still it is Wednesday,
and I intend to pull out my book,
and prepare a cup of milked Earl Grey,
and stay buried under my furs.
If only for a couple more hours.
I deserve this much today.