Sunday
On sunday I trim my beard, water the indoor plants, start to drink a little earlier.
I test the windows and doors to make sure they’re firm, make sure they’re strong.
There’s a whole week on its way, with yes’ and no’s and maybe’s (the maybe is the worst).
I have to prepare for that.
Like a deluge, like a monsoon, the week comes in waves and if you don’t prepare you’re sucked out to sea.
The phone will ring, it will be someone upset, someone happy, someone ambivalent, some one needy, not necessarily in that order.
And then there will be the people that don’t call at all.
Those people who hover in the dark recesses of you life. You can see them faintly; a leviathan slowly turning in the fog. They are the worst ones.
They could smash onto your beaches and wipe you out or, what’s worse, they could never come at all. And leave you waiting for that fateful day.
