how it's going on a monday

2007-12-10 7:12 a.m.

It's Monday and it was a pretty good Monday. Monday doesn't have a lot going for it, it's not Monday's fault. You can only hit snooze a couple times and then you have to peel your eyes open. If you have someone making coffee for you, still pretty warm when you get out of the shower? it's not really so bad to have to button up, check your stuff is in the right bag, transfer the map to the leather purse from the canvas one. (I thought that purse would last years, but the truth is I'm so hard on everything, nice shape but the oils from my hands have darkened the straps, the weather and the leaking pen, omg I'm a mess, and I have been in such polluted places it never stood a chance. That's why we can't have nice things.) If you don't drink coffee I'm sorry, because I can't imagine a better reason to get up, except if someone is cooking bacon downstairs and you don't have to do the dishes.

There was a heaviness in the air that felt a promise of rain but it never did, it hasn't since I got here on the first of November. On a Monday like today I knew exactly where to go, when I lived in Queens.

Monday night is jazz night and discounted wine at a little Italian place on Broadway, just a few blocks away from Tink and my old slanty-floored two-bedroom. There's usually a trio but always the one guy with the hat, and it's easy to get a place by the fire, a little too close to the music but in a good way. We could share some berries or I'll have one bite of your cheesecake, it's not really my thing but I keep trying it to see if someday I'll like it. If it was a fast I'd get the rigatoni, and if it wasn't I'd get the rigatoni with their homemade sausage or sometimes the pizza. After that if you're feeling like being bad it's Gibney's, there's a fire there too in the back and the bartender will do anything for you if you just talk to him on those slow nights, but not too much, and admire him when he throws someone out.

it starts with little blue licks up the edges of yesterday's paper, the print smells like I wish
what if we. under the table the edge of your sole lets me know, I finished that section
(never gonna)
it's flaring yellow, bright as the sun, ninety-three million
shooting sparks, eating today's headlines now
(now but i'm)
I never read them or watch anything because let's switch
closer to the red heart is the best way to dry your wet jeans on a day
(gonna)
when you can't see five feet in front of you and you
have to walk with one hand wiping your face while you're waiting
(you anyhow)
for the orange embers to warm the other side too
if you're done with yours can I hold it there, it reminds me of the rain on the roof
(nothing's wrong)
of the cabin surrounded by brown dripping pines, nothing more than a one-room shed
but it kept us dry. mostly. and it's the most perfect sound

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