“Mondays” by Sam Albala

Mondays

Mondays always dragged on like the only purpose was to suck the joy out of the weekend, and underneath it all was a secret plot to undermine the strength left over from the week before. There was a never-ending sense of support last Thursday, but time is moving sideways now, showing you everything in a different light. It was the case of beer and the friendly hello that caused you a deceptive sense of security. It was the extra hour of sleep and breakfast of more than toast stuffed inside of a napkin as you ran out the door. You stopped living like you were homeless, but today, you might as well be.

You served a man regular instead of decaf. A woman whole instead of skim. Did you do it on purpose? Did they notice? Does it matter in the long run? Probably not. It’s Monday and that is your excuse, and will be, until your body gives way to your mind and you collapse into, hopefully, your own bed to sleep for a solid six to eight hours.

But you won’t do that.

Instead you’ll cave into any invitation to dance to a bunch of overly played pop songs. You will find yourself drooling on the arm of some twenty something Med- school dropout who keeps referring to you as Babe. In the dim light of the club they seemed smarter, nicer, better, but in the four am haze where you are sneaking out to get ready for work you are empty, forgetful, and stupid. They woke up as you were putting on your shoes and you watched them, confused, asking where you were going. You tried to explain that the alarm went off, that you had to leave, and in seconds they were dressed, walking you to your car.

You tried not to talk to the jerks you met after a falling out with yet again another jerk. They would always tell you that you looked great. Those were always the exact words, YOU-LOOK-GREAT-and they acted like your friend, but sensed your vulnerability and pounced at the end of the night, and being sleep deprived senseless you, you let them. They do something nice, and for an hour, maybe a week, you forget that they were the same asshole that pulled you away from someone else. In your tired haze, you will also be a jerk. This is how you lose them. Not that you should have them in the first place. You’ll accuse them of something, you’ll take something personally, you’ll be a nightmare and a half by investing too much of your delusional paranoid neediness into someone who didn’t think enough of you to begin with.

The day is over. Move on. You still need to go to sleep.

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Sam Albala is east coast meets just-past-mid-west-coast poet. She has a horizon habit, and is not ashamed to show you while saying “phones are not real life.” Sam loves when things are dark: her coffee, chocolate, music . . .  To see not-real-life horizons find @keepmindscreative on Instagram, or to read more words, visit samanthaalbala.contently.com.

Featured image by Sharon McCutcheon

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