Monday is tired and a little angry. She wishes the weekend had lasted longer, even if only for a few hours. Somehow the last part of the morning speeds up and she lies in bed wondering if it's worth it. Getting up. Going to work. Talking on the phone, sending e-mails, catching up on the news. What's the point? She had read once that something was "unromantic as a Monday morning." She agrees- Monday mornings are the opposite of romantic. They are desperate, dark things.
Monday always wears black. She feels it matches her mood, and she's especially gratified when the weather coincides. Like today was chilly with swathes of cloud. Monday rushes from meeting to meeting with only the thought of 5.00 to get her through the day.
Monday lives for the evenings when she can stop rushing. She can sit with a book and a glass of wine. At last the day is over, and the night is beginning. She feels the darkness descend, and she smiles.
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