Saturdays are the worst, especially after nothing doing Friday nights. It sits there like bad road. It sits there with all possibilities open, but none seem interesting. It sits there with tabula rasa head and lazy, hungover fingers. No one to call, no place worth walking to; Saturday and perpetually alone.
I smiled at the smell of stale beer this morning, walking to get coffee, the promise of something familiar. The quick check girl never remembers me. I remember her tattoo during the rain-soaked walk back to the anonymity of home. Saturdays are the worst, and another hour passes with nothing to speak of: no new words, no new relaxation. A
simple anxiety that all there is left are the moments till casual conversations at bars, subtle flirtations over coffee and the five days of faking it in between.
From: the void sutras