Tuesday.

(This short story, written December 11th, is based on nonfictional events and dedicated to a fellow named Scott.)

The gray lasted from the dawn to dusk, the fog drenching the spirits of the city, stretching the lines at the cafes and bakeries. And on a mundane Tuesday, the people worked, the children learned, the yuppies overpaid, the cheerleaders underate, and the Bobs of the city took their cigar breaks at precisely 10:10am. It was this very day when she was deeply, soulfully inspired to finally organize a basket of laundry ready for the machines downstairs, the machines which only moved when contacted with precisely 24 quarters. It was early afternoon when a showered, energetic, impassioned she suddenly found herself driven to a concrete wall manifesting itself in... five measly quarters. Twas not the day for laundry. Maybe it wasn't the day for doing anything. The universe was speaking, and with no other voices in her head on this quiet Tuesday afternoon, she had no choice but to listen.

She zipped her boots over her jeans and contemplated her journey of the day. Her heart twittered at the promise of a brisk walk, while her ankles-- normally the unqualified warriors of the forty-hour week-- shuddered silently. "I promise you nice things," she whispered to herself as encouragement, and sure enough, as she re-entered the world, she successfully walked past her parked sedan, onward to a journey on-foot. Little did she know that only disappointment would befall her in the next hour and a half, with the discovery of a closed party store and a distinct lack of Christmas-themed costumes in any other neighborhood store. Maybe it was another sign, most likely from the Jewish side of her ancestors.

Upon returning to her car, she slumped in the seat, the air sliding out of her lungs. She stared ahead at the gray of the pavement meeting the unchanged sky. It was literally an uphill battle to find purpose to this particular Tuesday. She wouldn't let herself give up. Perhaps it was as little as a freshly-baked croissant, or perhaps her long-lost best friend would be awaiting her at the peak of the highway. Maybe there was a song that needed to be heard on the radio, an inspiring message to be delivered personally to her. Or perhaps the shower, the make-up, the fresh pair of socks... perhaps none of it was worth this Tuesday. Three cups of coffee pumped her blood at an abnormal rate. The engine turned, smoothed, and led her up the hill.

Somehow, the Divine forces delivered she to the (second-)nearest party store she knew, and she stood on minute #10, her eyes tasting the pictorial variations on a traditional Santa Claus costume. Her darkly-lined hazel eyes narrowed, piercing each image scrupulously, using her logic and imagination to eliminate some of the choices. Upon choosing a favorite, it was then the price that caused pause. The deep, philosophical debate of tradition and the question "what exactly IS Santa Claus" kept her beautiful mind occupied for far too long as the early evening grew dimmer. At last, her decision was merely to wait, accepting a minor success in finding options. Temporarily, she denied herself the stress of counting the little time before the arrival of Saturday night, and marched to a victory dinner of beef stew and sourdough. At last, the day could be considered a good day off.

Good Morning

Meredith didn't awaken until her eyes opened, a sharp, dry breath being sucked into her lungs. Without thinking, without feeling, she went through the motions: cancelling the alarm clock, starting the coffee, opening the curtains, getting ready for work... Work. Like a hangover, it overtook her, until her teeth clenched like her eyes, as an anvil pulled down on her heart. The taste of coffee felt strangely familiar when coupled with ibuprofen. Nine hours later, she stood in her doorway, trying her best to settle the calamity that crowded her head. The tall living room windows filled the room with a suffocating amount of darkness. The door had to be shut, curtains drawn, coat and bag put away. The taste of wine tasted strangely familiar when coupled with ibuprofen. She sat, exhaled, and stared at her modest flat-screen, not bothering to turn it on. Her second glass of wine was mercifully lowering the volume of the noise in her mind. She was beginning to forget, to dream. As she became a little too comfortable, she decided to turn in.

Meredith awoke. She turned off her alarm. Coffee. Daylight. Work. ... Work. The mere seemed to hit her harder by the day. Was this her life? To earn a living, to stay alive, to accomplish nothing significant, and to be motivated by the dullest survival? There wasn't time- not today. Work. The taste of coffee was lost, and the ibuprofen was familiar. Nine hours later, she shuddered with hate. Who had she become-- this passionless husk without dream, without soul? Door, curtains, wine, ibuprofriend. The numbness settled into her as she sank into her couch and watched nothing. Nostalgia and ideas brought her a temporary dose of serenity. She touched her skin, her arm, her hands, the closest she'd felt to love. Closing in on what could have the potential to be a smile, she diagnosed the feeling as fatigue, and turned in.

Meredith's eyes opened, and she breathed. In her morning routine, the coffee pot scorched her skin, and fell to the floor, shattering. Stunned, she stood paralyzed, trying to recall the memory of turning the appliance off the previous morning. Annoyed and confused, she took a careless step to the sink, her bare foot taking in the hot, sharp consequences. She gave a short cry, immediately tending to her foot wound, her hand still throbbing with a swelling burn. The complications of the morning caused her to be fifteen minutes late for work, which translated to coming home two hours later than usual to make up for it. She stared into her dark living room, into vivid blackness, and took her frustration to the curtains, which buckled and fell under the excessive force. The night watched her scoff off her wine bottle and reach into the lowest, deepest cupboard to a bottle of vodka, which still went down smoothly with her ibuprofen. She stood in the room, refusing to get comfortable in front of the naked windows, her wounds still throbbing from the morning. She couldn't still her thoughts. Sleep was a nightmare.

Meredith hadn't bothered to set an alarm, since she hadn't truly slept. She'd spent the night thinking about work. Her body had become a weight, and she refused to stand. She obsessed about that which she abhorred to the point where she no longer considered freedom an option. Coffee wasn't an option. She stood, at last, and took her morning inhale. She felt... awake. She took her coat and bag to work. Work. She stood outside the office building. She could feel the soft pulse in her wrist hitting the back of her watch, which, if met face-to-face, would communicate the excessively early hour. And then... life happened. The scent of a pretentious dark roast drafted a path for Meredith across the street at an unfamiliar cafe. Recognizing this as an option she could merely refuse, that day, Meredith's high heels tentatively turned and clicked forward. She stepped into a place of vibrant music, warm scents, local art, and a speckling of diverse early-bird patrons. Although the vocalization of her order was meek, it triggered a coworker to approach her for the first time outside of work, to wish her a good morning. And, for the first time in a long time, it was.