I’m always singing the same three songs when I come to the
main office on Tuesdays, like I’ve been programmed by a FM DJ from a classic
rock station, starting with Badfinger’s Sweet Tuesday Morning when I first
arrive to Moody Blues’ “Tuesday Afternoon” as the day progresses, and ending up
with the Rolling Stones goodbye to Ruby Tuesday by the time I leave.
Tuesdays are always rough for me coming up from the
boondocks to pretend like I’m still part of the office when people up here barely
see me otherwise.
Worse now because of what happened over the weekend, the
unanswered questions ringing in my ears from a very short breakfast followed by
a very long walk, seeing her in this very familiar place where we both half to
act like strangers, sharing some unspoken secret between us – or at least a secret
not spoken aloud, going through routines even on my best days I hated, now
feeling like a chain around my waist, dragging me down, yet at the same time, I
feel spunky as if I was 17 years old again.
There is something unnatural about feeling 17 at my age, so
full of guilt, especially when I long to meet again, in any other place but
this.
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