thursday

Thursday. Not again. It seems like just last week I had a Thursday. Outside, because I’m sitting at the window today, fourteen storeys up, people are swimming in pools. They must be heated, I imagine, because even from inside I can see that the air, if it were coloured, would be blue, for cold, like the arctic. Not to mention that the bare-chested swimmers are in shade, provided by the massive buildings standing, watching over them. A heated pool, I think. Dry towels. I wonder who has such luxuries, and why. It’s Thursday, you should be at work, I say. One man, outside still, is at work, sitting on a metal plate, hanging from a pulley attached to the roof of a building taller even than mine. He is cleaning the windows, erasing the smut that rises from the streets and up off the river, so people like me can watch people in pools. As he swings, the blue air whips, ruptures, turns white and then clear, and I hope he does not fall. From my seat at the window today, fourteen storeys up, I imagine I would see it all, be scarred for life, and the next time Thursday comes and the times after that I would have to think not again, not again.