Friday

Friday is my favorite, I think. Not that it has a lot of stiff competition these days. But still, it’s got something special. Not because of the concert at Lincoln Hall. No new restaurant to check out, no friends to meet at happy hour. No. Pajamas are on at 6:30. Something delicious is on the stove. Not anything complicated. Tonight it was good pasta with broccoli and olive oil. Some parmesan, lots of pepper. Something that’s already waiting in the cupboard; no shopping, but time enough to cook. The ipod sits inside its little kitchen speaker, the speaker purchased years ago to fill in a lonely space not unlike this one. Time to sit, sip a good glass of gin, enjoy the music. Ray LaMontagne this time, maybe Sam Cooke next week. This space feels comfortable. Friday is no work in the morning. Friday is okay to skip the gym, if you don’t want to go. And it’s not yet lonely; it’s okay to sit here in the kitchen, with the gin and the pasta, in pajamas at 6:30. Unlike Saturday. Saturday is the worst sometimes.