The end of the week.

I wanted the end of this week to be done. Wanted to pack it tissue paper, like old-fashioned layette, all folded at the corners and the scent of clean things. I wanted to be gentle with the end of the week. Wanted to wrap it up in brown paper, bind it up with string and hot red sealing wax, slightly melted at the edges. I wanted to send the end of the week to a desert island, let it sit alone on an empty beach and whisper to the waves, and the old blue whales. I wanted to meet it later, so much later, when time would lead to laughter and a sense of understanding, when we could have a drink, knock our glasses together and say we were old friends. Old friends. Instead the end of week and I stand, two soldiers on a no-mans land, facing each other, staring blindly, legs wavering, half-smiling. We are waiting for the weekend, almost ready to shake hands, we are waiting for the weekend, tomorrow.