Tuesday. The worst day of the week. Monday had a worse rep, but it still possessed some residual weekend glow. By Tuesday, all was drudgery.
Raining, of course. Not too many people at the gym. February rain and faded resolutions had thinned the herd. He felt righteous, not better, but a little smug.
The satisfaction lasted until he tried to leave the parking garage. A bonehead in a pickup truck cut him off and sped to the gate, only to spend two minutes arguing with the disembodied voice over the speaker. Finally the half-brain shoved his credit card into the machine.
He inserted his own validated ticket and started to exit. Some poor girl out walking in the rain. He stopped so she could cross. At least she had a raincoat and an umbrella. A quick nod and she was off. For someone out before dawn on a rainy Tuesday, she had a lively step.
Lunch forgotten at home. He shuffled to the sandwich place, holding the door for the queen of indecision. After standing in line for five minutes, the chalk menu in full sight above the counter, she required another three minutes to order a turkey club, the special of the day.
He picked up his mayo-less BLT and headed out to the rain. A young woman in a black raincoat approached. He held the door. She offered a smile and a quiet thank you as she folded up her umbrella and bounced in.
The left turn arrow turned green. The driver in front of him did nothing. He politely honked. Nothing. He leaned on the horn. Three beats later, the driver sped through the light as it turned red, texting. To avoid becoming a hood ornament, a young woman in a black raincoat leapt back onto the curb. He swore at the other driver on her behalf. He admired the spirit of her gait, especially after a close encounter with the idiot.
He hurried through the grocery store, grabbing dinner fixings and some oranges to thwart the temptations of the office candy jar. The entire city was shopping that night. He lucked into a newly opened line behind a lone man carrying a basket of canned ravioli.
The gentleman was paying by check and insisted on bagging his own groceries. Was he balancing his checkbook, too? Finally, the last can was precisely arranged in the bag.
He headed home to bunker down and let Tuesday run its course. A large woman was blocking the out door, lost in her electronic device. He tried to loop around and bumped into someone in an opposing orbit. He knocked an umbrella loose. He apologized and reached down to retrieve it. The suddenly familiar woman in the black raincoat waited. He offered her the umbrella and chuckled. She flashed a bemused look, “What’s so funny?”
“I think Tuesday wanted us to meet.”
“I hate Tuesdays.”
“I used to.”
