The Stroke of Midnight
It's something about Sunday's. Their mornings usually call for coffee makers and fresh biscuits, phone calls from grandmothers asking if they'll see you in church this "mawnin'" or calls from your mother making sure you made it in alright from the party last night. By mid afternoon it can be about football, you can expect your social network timelines to be filled with blow by blow coverage of the hometeam's victory, or lack thereof. The evening is filled with home cooking, either yours or a relatives, stick to your ribs good, wholesome and hearty. Thoughts of your work week consume you by 7pm, promises to be asleep in an hour by 9pm, but the best shows are on then. By midnight, your Sunday is complete, your #regularpeopleproblems are over. You can begin again.
What happens when Sunday's change? When there's an interruption in the usual, when the normal is so damn new? When mornings aren't about coffee or no damn biscuits, but a conversation between the present you and the past you? Comparing notes, revealing that what you thought didn't happen actually happened. If breakfast is what you want you are reminded that there's no need to make extra, no one'll be joining. No phone calls from grandmothers or mothers as they're both nonexistent, you know they were there before, but there's something about the correlation of not seeing, but believing that you hadn't quite mastered.
By mid afternoon, you remember his scent, him, your lesson - because we are told in life, either a person is a blessing or a lesson, and you'd decided that a lesson he was in fact. Although you struggle to come to terms with who and how he is. You'd been told that a woman has to be able to distinguish between a jacked up dude who does jacked up things and a decent guy who'd simply done a jacked up guy thing. Depending on the Sunday, he could be either. You never were quite sure, which is why you rather pretend he doesn't exist and that the mental picture you'd saved of him was simply from an ad in the latest issue of Essence. Damn, if only you could get rid of that scent, or at least find a good excuse for it.
The evening rolls around and you have convinced yourself that this week will be different. You will focus better, you won't spend more than thirty minutes searching for ideas to grow your business on company time, you'll respect the fact that while you want to build your dream, someone pays you to help build theirs. You won't pause before answering anymore if a superior asks you if you understand, simply because they startled you from a daydream. You won't be bored. Your job is great, the people you work with are great, the pay is great. You will acknowledge this and therefore act accordingly. Blog posts are for after work, e-mails to your best friend in Germany is for your lunch break. Planning for vacation days you technically haven't earned is frivolous. You will accept where you are, in hopes of getting where you want to be. You will think of "your lesson" no more, as you will meet your blessing come Wednesday. You make a note to search a new recipe for biscuits on Saturday and kiss the photo of your mother by your bedside. It's midnight. It's, Monday.