O’ Monday, Have Mercy
by Robbie Imes
I’ve hated you from the beginning.
When I woke up at three o’clock in the morning with a slight pain in my back. When I awoke again at four-thirty and looked outside, the still, dead tree indicating another cold day. Nothing had changed. Spring had come, but it was you holding it at bay.
The night before I feared you. As I went to bed, sayonara social media friends, the pit in my stomach grew. I knew you were there, wicked. You waited for me in the dark. You wanted to devour me. And I sort of wanted to die. I shut my eyes.
By six-thirty my fear had hardened into hate. I was mad with hate. The alarm went off but I was already awake. My back. It still hurt. Monday, I wished you just didn’t exist.
In my scramble to stop the noise I knocked my phone off of the night stand, a terrible sound. I could feel your pleasure in my discontent. Reaching under the chest-of-drawers, I scraped my hand. I almost wanted to cry. You’re so incredibly cruel.
I found my phone unscathed and I smiled against you. Small victories.
You looked upon me smugly. Waiting.
With the bravery to finally face you, I stumbled in my mourning clothes to the kitchen, jogging pants and t-shirt. There were still dishes in the sink from the night before. Remnants of our freedom, the warm exchanges between bites of food, still not washed away. Left to taunt me.
I began to boil water. Coffee could squelch the pain. Moments go by and I find there’s no coffee left. We forgot. Socks, boots, jacket, hat, I stomp my way to the cafe. Two blocks. It’s cold outside. I pay my $2 and force a smile. Thank you, milk, yes, please. A drop of cyanide, perhaps. Thanks.
The coffee smells so good. It immediately burns my tongue. Fuck you, Monday.
Back home, granola inhaled, added yogurt aggravates the stomachache I have coming on. I still have to shave. I have to brush my teeth. I need to drink more water. At least there’s hot water to help wash some of this away. One more victory among my many defeats.
Hair done. Almost out of lotion. Unwashed shirt. Dry skin. Cologne spray hits my eye. Oh well. Thirty minutes late. Out the door. It’s still freezing outside. Spring isn’t real. It can’t be. We’re living in a dream.
7th Avenue. Please move faster. Now the F Train. It’s full of maniacs. This train, another beast, another burden. The train creeps to each stop. Bergen is where we stop for a while, languidly as if no one has anywhere else to be. It’s Monday morning after all. Why would we?
Transfer to the A Train, oh that was a mistake. Slow, like a hellish parade of monsters. Or a motorcade. Monday is slowly murdering me. Funeral at dusk. Because I still sort of want to die. This moment. It’s killing me. I’m dead. Goodbye.