Tuesdays. Sonder’s breach. Shafts of aqueous morning sun permeate the hazy sheet of city air, allowing the close inspection of startled dust. Every man-made embarrassment is bathed in light. Black heads and heavy eyes tap on the pavement. A street child with an ashen face and no teeth smiles. A woman thinks about sleep going to work. When she comes home, she will think of work going to sleep. There is something fresh about the day. Tuesday. The second day of the week. For most, negligible. For some, forgettable. Today, the fury of a strengthening summer alters the furrows of Tuesday, making every step fertile, every word music, and every action force.
The glint of his eyes no longer exists. If there is anything left of him, it has rusted, it is rusting. A man in plaid shirt, faded jeans, and brown loafers scurry across the street, unmindful of the traffic signals. Suicide without knowing but he escapes in centimetres. Fucking drivers. His second-life. He reminds me of someone. I can’t remember. It has become too sunny for memories to surface from their dark, deep wells. His red lips, like Tuesday – familiar, but negligible. Now, forgettable.