A Story a Day: Day 2

Dirge Thursdays.

Dirge Thursdays.

Or Mondays.

Or Tuesdays.

Anything but Friday.

The man, the myth, the legend.

He comes.

Or rather, he’s coming soon; comes almost as soon as he leaves.

Said he’ll be around for twenty-four, ‘just doing bits and bobs’; cagey, dangerous, ‘you know the score’.

Seconds, minutes, hours — I’m not sure. Time blurs. The eternal prison.

It’s not what he is, but what he represents — freedom.

I’m jealous of him.

Fucking Friday.

Why does he have to get all the glory?

“Humpday”. Those ‘lovely lady lumps’ degraded, a notch on the week if not the bedpost — but probably both. Let’s be realistic.

We need both, and we have both, but we want only one.

I still want to fuck him.