Jeb’s alarm just went off. It’s 5:51am. Coffee is brewed.
I make rounds in the dark. Move between beds. Hug and kiss each occupant. Whisper.
“It’s Friday. I love you.”
I come to the keyboard. Am slowed by the slice on my thumb.
Last night I foolishly wrestled with a can of olives.
This morning it smarts.
The garbage truck grinds to a stop at our place. All gears and motor and safety beeps.
Jeb’s up and sneezing.
The Bohemian stirs and yawns.
It’s a rather small cut, but my thumb slows me down.
Taps out spaces between mundane prose.
I’ve heard of offices offering “casual Fridays” to employees. Workers get a break from dressing in business attire.
Today, I’d say, that the Archives is not wearing a power suit.
It’s fitted in leisure clothes, all the way.