We’ll stagger home after midnight
Sleep arm-in-arm in the stairwell
We’ll fall apart on the weekends
These nights go on and on and on…
― blink 182
We should have had a Wednesday. Date night is Wednesday. Instead of waking up next to you tomorrow morning, I am half a world away. When you wake up alone, I will be getting ready for dinner. Yes, I am confused too.
Last week we should have had a Wednesday. Date night is Wednesday. My travels and your move kept us from this imperative mid-week normalcy. Regular couples have dinner together on Wednesday nights and walk the dog and fall asleep together. No, we are not normal. Nor have ever been, but that one night a week centers me. It is our one look at normal.
Once Friday night comes, game is on. We move, we shake, we rendezvous, we meet, we greet, we play, we fuck, we laugh, we talk, we plan, we dine, we cook, we shop, we entertain, we run, we drink, we do. We do. We do. We do.
On Wednesdays there is less doing and more being.
We should have had a Sunday. Our Sunday mornings are one of the few times during the week that I am still. It’s the one day you don’t have to hold me down; I want to be still. Still and close. For some reason I have no desire to jump from the bed and start the day. I want to enjoy coffee and read and roll around. We watch CBS Sunday Morning and talk about the state of the world. And periodically pet a puppy. There is lots of petting. Instead I was on a plane and you were boycotting Charles.
Next week we should have a Wednesday. Date night is Wednesday. Instead I will once again be on a plane and you will be preparing. I will see you though on Thursday, and I will treat it like a Wednesday. I may also want Friday to be a Wednesday. And from there? Well baby, we happily go on, and on, and on…