I miss you the most on Wednesdays, the loneliest day of the week.
Sundays are a best friend from summer camp that you never want to leave.
Mondays are all Voldemort-like.
Tuesdays are that feeling you get when you wake up displaced from a four-hour long nap and have to sort through the grogginess of what just happened.
Fridays are Thursday’s friend-with-benefits.
And Saturdays, aww, Saturdays are as gorgeously brilliant as a lover you dare to spend the entire day with, rolling around underneath clouds of cigarette smoke, exchanging limericks through puffs of French Vanilla coffee stained breath, and nibbling into the heart of a gooey chocolate croissant.
Like Wednesdays, my feelings for you no longer have a place to belong. They are standing there, naked, like a screaming toddler, throwing temper tantrums in hopes that someone will appear to rescue them, to smear the dried snot out of their crusty nose, to pamper their butt with baby powder as innocent as fresh snow. They are alive, on Wednesdays, tumbling around like skittles dancing on wobbly pavement trying not to fall between the cracks. Note to self: just try not to fall between the cracks.
Wednesday was always the hardest day of the week for me to spell. Until I was 6, I was convincingly positive it was “Whens-day”, or perhaps named after this girl with mushroom colored hair, “Wendy’s-day”. It was complicated and twisted, nonsensical and dazzling. All of the things you once loved about me.
What if we did away with Wednesday all together? Tuesday could get all snuggly with Thursday, and Friday wouldn’t have the pressure of another weekday giving it the stink eye for it’s slender and promiscuous self.
I can’t help but think about you on Wednesday mornings, while I’m on the train. Looking out of the window passing by new cities, crossing state lines like a fugitive on the run, flirting with the idea of just going back. You used to speak softly to me on the phone, late at night, until you didn’t want to talk anymore. And then, like the final burning moment of a fire cracker, your raspy voice would come to life to remind me, Distance is hard and I just don’t know if I.. and I’d cut you off, or pretend the call dropped, or scream really loudly like I was chanting “Happy New Year!”, just to distract you, to allow you to swallow the tail end of a comment I would never be ready to hear.
If only we could rearrange the states, I would often say.
The sound of your poppy seed color eyeballs rolling on the other end of the phone came through in your final sigh.
I’ll pass Maryland before I’ll spy Delaware, fly through Pennsylvania before smelling New Jersey, and then, alone, I’ll crawl back into New York. The states, you used to assure me, align themselves so simply.
So then why can’t we?